Continuing the Cycle
by Phantom Feline
Summary: Harry thought he would die; had anticipated it, even. So now what will he do in this new world, one without magic? Not to say that there isn't power lurking here... With snakes calling him 'Lord', and everyone else saying 'Abomination', is it any surprise that he's not going to have an easy time settling down? Subtle HP AU. Eventual Naruto AU. Slow paced. Rated M; Dark Themes.
1. Prologue: The End

**12/6/12; Edit:** Let it be known that I, apparently, have a screwed up definition of exactly what qualifies as **ANGST**. This fic also, apparently, contains a lot of it. Forgive me, my old readers, for not knowing exactly how screwed-up I actually am, and new readers take heed. Though I'm reasonably sure, after the start of the third Arc (FF ch 16, Interlude 2), it turns away from the whole past!angst. If you don't think you can handle some (pretty severe, apparently) angst until then, this is your warning to turn away. Also, if you are bothered by the mention and -maybe- possibility of future slashy aspects, you shouldn't even bother reading. No promises, but I'm not going to restrain myself.

/-/-/-/-/

Prologue; The End

It amazed Harry, in a vague sort of way, that he could recall some things with such clarity still, after all this time… He blamed Voldemort. It was easiest to blame him, now… But it was easy to blame everyone, with all he'd gone through. It would have been better if he couldn't remember at all…

Almost two years ago to the day—or so he had been told; it was hard for him to track time, and he didn't trust a thing out of the Dark Lord's mouth—had been the disastrous trip he took with his gaggle of DA members into the very bowels of the Ministry, and the Department of Mysteries. The day he endangered _school children_ so unlike himself on a misinformed, under thought rescue mission when he knew—_he knew!_—the Dark Lord would be waiting.

It had been the day he had been possessed by Voldemort. The day he lost his Godfather to the Veil. The day he confirmed—_though, he'd somehow kind of known—_that the Dark Lord lurked in his mind already.

The day he heard the Prophecy that had sentenced his parents to death fourteen years previous, and seemed to hang the same sentence over his head. _Harry knew why Voldemort wanted him dead._

Dumbledore, Harry recalled murkily, had not managed to mask his surprise when instead of yelling (when the old codger had refused to let him escape and mourn in isolation) he had stared at the man, furious beyond words, and the door had _shattered_. And Harry left.

No one had bothered Harry, then. His…friends…recovered from their wounds and kept their distance, and Harry's guilt was a muted thing, pushed away more easily than it should have been. The rest of the school left well enough alone at news of Voldemort's return being confirmed by the Daily Prophet…and Harry ignored anyone who tried to talk to him about it.

There were more important things to concern himself with.

Like hell was he going to go down without a fight; he spent his usual isolated summer with his relatives reviewing the past year's books. Harry would fight for himself, and for Sirius. He had the feeling his godfather would appreciate it more than him mourning.

His sixth year started with him making enemies of his own House—the fools. They didn't understand…couldn't. Before the Welcoming Feast was through harry had turned in his Quidditch Captain's badge to McGonogall and announced his resignation from the team. He loved to fly, but he would have no time…never enough time. There was a death clock over his head, ticking away the time remaining, the time he had to live, to get stronger and kill or be killed. And the time was coming quickly.

By breakfast the whole school knew he'd left the team, and he became the focus of all discussions once again. Ron had been particularly _vocal_ about Harry's decision, and it had only resolved him that he'd made the right choice to do this alone. Harry would protect his friends, even if it meant they would no longer consider him one. _They didn't need to know about the Prophecy._

A routine started; one that lasted the rest of the year, and nothing and no one could stop. As soon as his last class let out Harry went to the Room of Requirement—what he needed was always the same. _"I need training—to get strong, skilled, _fast_. No one can stop me, can find me. Whatever it takes—I need _everything_."_

Hogwarts complied—gave him everything. Harry would kill the Dark Lord or die trying (and hopefully take down as many Death Eaters he could in the crossfire). Apparently, the nearly sentient Hogwarts didn't care what spells (_rituals, training, _everything…) she gave him were legal or not, either. What the Ministry ruled as Dark didn't matter to the Castle; Magic was Magic. _(And if Harry recalled Voldemort's words from his first year at one point, he brushed them aside quickly enough.)_

At some point, early on, Harry stopped leaving the Room for anything but classes anymore, and that was only to keep from being suspended. He needed all the time he could get to train; homework was half-assed—if done at all—and sleep became…optional. Harry came to dread sleep. Not only was it a waste of his valuable, limited time, but every time he slept he was assaulted by visions of torture and murder. Harry _knew_ Voldemort did it on purpose; the visions had only gotten worse since his possession in the Ministry, despite attempts at Occlumency. The visions were worse than him simply _witnessing_ the acts; he was in Voldemort's mind—_was_ Voldemort—feeling the creature's (for he couldn't be a man anymore…right?) emotions…the joy, twisted with sadistic pleasure, as he slaughtered countless defenseless people…

So no, Harry didn't sleep much.

Sometimes the Room would _insist_ that he learn something, and would bring it to his attention. Usually by dropping a heavy tome on his head with no warning. Hogwarts had a sense of humor, apparently. One such time it had done this was as Harry studiously re-read a journal on dark magic theory, the night of Winter Solstice.

He'd thanked the Room (voice cracking from disuse), rubbing the sore bump rising on his head, and opened the bookmarked page in the thick, old tome. It was a ritual book—all of them illegal for one reason or another, most of them likely punishable by a lengthy stay in Azkaban—and dated back to the time of the Founders.

The Room shifted around him even as he read the bookmarked ritual—the entire book was written in an annoying slew of Olde English—that, if it could be believed, was supposed to "rejoin Himself with His natural Magick", making learning easier and spells more effective. Hogwarts hadn't led him wrong thus far—the effects of the ritual seemed to be just what he needed—so Harry preformed the ritual right then. It _needed_ to be done on the eve of the Solstice.

It was an easy thing to do, and there was practically no was to mess up. Harry hadn't figured out until it was already done and irreversible just _why_ this ritual was classified as a Forbidden Art.

Even now, though, with his mind opened and torn asunder, Harry still couldn't remember everything about that night: The room hazy with fragrant smoke, moonbeams from the changed, open ceiling. Stinging across his throat as he drew his blood with a clear-quartz blade. Crimson swirling into an obsidian bowl, magic and moonlight making it glow eerily and beautifully. The taste of blood on his lips and liquid weigh heavy in his stomach—his skin tingling and hair standing on end as if he'd been shocked.

He'd tested, and indeed, his spells _had_ preformed better, with less effort.

And when, in the next few days, he'd found himself quicker than usual to anger and his thoughts more vindictive, he'd attributed it to lack of sleep…or bleed-over from Voldemort. So, it had come as a shock when after a week of no sleep that he had fallen unconscious in the middle of another training session and pulled into a vision, and begun to realize an unexpected side-effect of the ritual.

Voldemort was particularly vicious with the slaughter, on this occasion; it stood out as the first time Harry had seen an Inferius. It was an extraordinarily vicious, bloody, and horrible slaughter of an entire family, including two children too young to even attend Hogwarts and a bedridden grandmother. As always, Harry felt Voldemort's emotions as if they were his own.

When he woke, though, he knew something had been different; something had been…wrong? His throat didn't ache from screaming, as it usually did after a vision. He wasn't sweating, and his eyes were dry…he didn't feel sick, either. The only proof he had that it hadn't been a simple nightmare was a small trickle of blood from his scar.

He remembered now that he'd sighed and pushed the ideas of wrongness away, and deciding that whatever the cause, it would be better if he weren't so affected by such things anyway… Not when he was learning to throw curses just as bad…

The room continued to (literally) drop practical material on his head, most of which Harry knew was strictly forbidden, illegal even. Still, he didn't care. The Death Eaters didn't pull punches, so neither would he.

It couldn't have been more than a month after his ritual when a thin book on the Animagus transformation dropped into his lap. Falling into a meditative mindset to discover his inner animal had been far easier than he'd expected, after hearing from Sirius firsthand that it often took years to complete even for even prodigious learners.

His first look at his inner animal had left him conflicted—stunned, content, terrified, and comforted—but also inexplicitly proud. He knew, even within his mind, looking into the great yellow eyes, that no one could ever know about this form.

If it had ever become known that he was a Basilisk, the Wizarding World would declare him the next Dark Lord before Voldemort had even fallen. _('Fickle fools,' the monster in him snarled.)_

_(In the long time he'd had to think since then, and Harry had a guess as to just what that ritual had done to him. Sirius had once said, talking about both Azkaban and his schooldays, that in his "grim" form his mindset became more "dog-ish". Harry hypothesized that the ritual bridged the mindsets of both his forms—bleeding "magical serpent; predator" into his human mind, and vice versa. But that was only him taking shots in the dark.)_

At some point wandless magic and physical fighting had become part of his training routine. Wandless magic came to him easily enough, once he'd figured out it relied on the belief he _could_ more than anything. He knew he wasn't impressive physically, though; he was fast, but his growth was stunted, he was malnourished and _really_ lacking sleep. Still, he'd learned and honed the art of getting the hell out of the way, and he could always take cheap shots easily enough… At the time, he could only hope it gave him the element of surprise, and an advantage in a tight spot.

All-in-all, his sixth year had been passed in a flurry of Gryffindor dodging—most of them trying to force him to reclaim his Quidditch position—, intense study and training. He scraped through his classes on practical classwork alone; there was just _no time_ for him to do homework. (In the end, he suspected that it was by Dumbledore alone that he had been allowed to pass onto the next grade, but he kept it to himself and didn't complain.)

He remembered vividly that the train ride back to King's Cross Station was silent, bitingly so. His friendships had suffered when he'd refused to allow them to become involved in his training; Hermione especially so, because for some reason none of the old DA could find the Room of Requirement anymore.

That summer was the only one in his memory that the Dursleys didn't antagonize him, but… Harry didn't really give them the chance to. Call it a preemptive strike. When they'd arrived outside Number Four, Vernon made to start his usual re-faced rant; Harry had turned towards the tub of lard, wearing a smile just short of pure evil (he blamed the Basilisk in him) and cast a wandless silencing charm. As his Uncle's face did a fair imitation of a bloated plum, Harry had explained—still wearing his dangerous smile—that the Ministry couldn't trace wandless magic, and he would be in his room, don't bother him, thank you very much.

He'd studied out of some of the Room's books he'd taken, and mentally continued along the steps to prepare his body for his first, and most difficult, eventual animagus transformation. It still seemed a small eternity of wasted time until the Order arrived to take him away from his relatives. When they _did_ come to collect him—two days before his seventeenth birthday—, Harry left number four Privet Drive for the last time. He'd only looked back long enough to watch their reactions as he discreetly gave Dudley a pig's tail, and smiled grimly as he was portkeyed to Headquarters.

The night of his seventeenth birthday Harry watched Voldemort slaughter the Dursleys in their home, and when the Dark Lord laughed over their mutilated corpses, he wasn't alone in it. The act of killing the last of his blood relatives had probably been meant to spur Harry into making a rash move out of revenge, but it took the Boy-Who-Lived all he had not to send the Dark Lord a thank-you card for the best birthday gift he had ever been given.

_He thought Voldemort might have known, anyway…_

His time at Grimmauld Place was spent studying, and since he was an adult in Wizarding World standards he exercised his right to use magic by locking the annoying Order members out of his space. The Black Library turned out to be a true treasure trove of interesting spells that not even Hogwarts had. One in particular caught his eye, and he _very carefully_ devoted it to memory.

The return trip to Hogwarts was spent all alone once again, in a locked and warded compartment. Harry decided it was best to isolate himself after almost flaying a second year Hufflepuff for grabbing his arm; he hadn't slept in over a week and was getting twitchy again…

He'd easily slipped away from the crowd, having chosen to skip the staring at the Welcoming Feast for the peace of the Room of Requirement once more. That was the night that he completed his animagus transformation. At sixty feet long with alternating emerald and Avada Kedavra green scales—magic resistant, most definitely—and a magnificent black crest, he would have been an intimidating sight to behold. Add to that his killer yellow eyes and too many fangs with their deadly toxic venom; he was the stuff of nightmares. It made him proud, that the reflection of his personality was such a magnificent thing.

Even so, his studies continued.

By mid-September Harry knew Voldemort was going to act soon; there had been _no_ attacks since the Dursley slaughter in July. _(Harry still couldn't help the creepy little smile that snuck onto his face when he thought about it.)_ It hadn't reassured him any that he had only been feeling anticipation coming from Voldemort's end of their connection…

It just happened that he was caught out of the Room early one Saturday and dragged down to Hogsmeade by Ron and Hermione in an attempt to rekindle their friendship…

_(He wonders how many times in these past months that they blamed themselves for what happened…)_

The only warning the students got before the Death Eaters arrived was Harry clutching his scar and leaning against the nearest wall in agony. The screaming started—Harry remembered feeling vaguely thankful that it was still early, so there weren't as many students out yet—and Harry retaliated, snapping off all manner of spells at the skull masked attackers. His training paid off—the sheer brutality of his spells had given them pause—and Harry cut a bloody swath through the mob of Death Eaters… At least, he had until he was struck down from behind by friendly fire.

He'd taken a violent slicing spell to the back, could feel burning agony from shoulder to hip, and heard more screams, and remembered thinking—_Gods, maybe I should have included them, at least so they could _aim_!_—before his skull felt like it would crack from the pain in his scar.

When Voldemort arrived he'd found Harry immediately, and had looked at him with a kind of interest in his odd, snakelike eyes that was _so different _than the hate he'd seen in the Atrium last… He'd wretched Harry to his feet—prompting Harry to curse and almost vomit between the pain and movement—and apparated them away, his Death Eaters presumably having followed.

It was at this point that his perception of time became a bit…iffy _(And what was this? He felt like he was forgetting things…)_. Voldemort had kept watching him with that same weird interest as he snapped Harry's wand; Harry recalled the almost physical pain he'd felt watching the Dark Lord burn the holly and phoenix feather shards.

Then, after that there had been…dark and…cold…and _silence_. _Absolute silence._

It must have been a small cell; he remembered pacing before he became too weak. At one point he remembered cursing himself for having such a large animagus form; it was completely useless here.

At the time there had been no way to tell how much time had passed in the darkness. A few times he remembered being pinned to the floor and a potion forced down his throat. By then he'd been too weak to even try to fight back physically (and his wandless magic was a _special surprise_ just for Voldemort; he knew that much). For all Harry knew they could have been feeding him poison, but at least some of the time he recognized the taste of a nutrient potion. Just enough to keep him alive, and nothing more.

When exhaustion would finally drag him unconscious, Voldemort would send visions of his triumphs. The vicious murder of Hermione's parents was tame compared to the tortures inflicted upon Order members and Light supporters. Voldemort would often summon venomous snakes and have them bite the people, inflicting hours of agonizing pain, and sometimes curing them at the brink of death before repeating the same process. Again and again.

But things changed again, and Harry was moved. He passed out in his cell, and the next time he woke was to an even more uncomfortable situation, far, _far_, worse than having been tied to a gravestone and used in a ritual. His clothes had been changed to the same cheap and threadbare clothes as an Azkaban inmate, but he was not in Azkaban… Harry woke to find himself shackled to the floor beside the Dark Lord's throne.

Outside the dark hole of a cell they'd kept him in it became easier to track the passage of time. Voldemort called a Meeting every third day: Every third day Harry sat passively at the Dark Lord's feet as the Death Eaters jeered and taunted him over the steady fall of the Light. They'd seemed to find it funny that Voldemort allowed the snake Nagini to wrap herself around the "Chosen One". They didn't find it so finny when one day Harry hissed at her to attack Wormtail an, so used to obeying one Parselmouth, she attacked the man without hesitation. The vicious smile Harry had worn as his parent's traitor screamed in agony hadn't been missed by anyone.

_(In hindsight, he realized that it was stupid of him to act so rashly, and it wasn't because Voldemort tortured him over Wormtail's death. The man _did_ die. No, in some ways this was worse than a painful torture, the fascination the Dark Lord fostered for him. The man-snake-_creature_ would hiss little things at him—though Harry never answered, never spoke—and would constantly touch him. Face, hands, hair, back: As starved for touch Harry was, he still would have preferred the Cruciatus Curse over Voldemort's constant attention…)_

At some point, he learned that his time spent in the dark cell had been six months. Huh.

/-/-/-/-/

Harry blinked slowly as his consciousness returned to the fore of his mind; it was the only sign to any observer that he was aware of his surroundings again. He listened with half an ear as Voldemort organized his ranks for the day's takeover of the Ministry. Harry wasn't surprised that the creature was finally making his move to take over the world: If the things he saw in his visions were anything to go by the Wizarding World was out of hope. Their Savior had been gone eight months, now.

Harry made a small noise of pain as he was pulled up off the cold stone floor; his cramped and severely weakened limbs protested him standing, and he fell back against the too-tall form of Lord Voldemort. There were noises of outrage from the Death Eaters, but Harry felt the Dark Lord laugh to himself and wrap one of his arms around Harry, holding him up and tight to his chest.

Harry let his mind retreat so that it was easier to ignore Voldemort's hold, staring blankly ahead at the mass of skull-masked figures as they let out a cheer, presumably at the Dark Lord's rallying speech. The sudden squeezing sensation of apparition forcefully pulled his mind into coherence in time to notice a multitude of _cracks! _as the Death Eaters arrived in the Atrium.

_(Ah, Interim Minister Malfoy must have lowered the wards…)_

The smooth, dark wood of the floor was warmer on his bare feet than the stone of Voldemort's throne room had been. Interestingly enough, the room was still and quiet; the fireplaces along the walls weren't burning. The expected screaming at the appearance of the Dark Lord suddenly appearing in their midst wasn't there…

Someone gasped.

Harry felt Voldemort hold him more possessively as what appeared to be all of Dumbledore's Order—and some of Harry's DA members, if he saw correctly—assembled between them and deeper entrance to the Ministry. Harry watched them blandly; most of them looked shocked to see him. They thought he had been killed long ago…Harry blamed them for not trying to rescue him. That's what they get for assuming things…Even if he _had_ been missing eight months.

They stared at him for the longest time, until shock turned into disgust as Voldemort ran his spindly fingers through Harry's lank hair; he felt the creature's amusement through their connection. He didn't bother trying to pull away. He knew he was too weak to stand alone, anyway.

Harry found Dumbledore's blue eyes—for once not twinkling—and simply blinked tiredly at the old man. Why was he here? Didn't the Headmaster recognize the hopelessness of the battle he was about to fight? Harry sighed, slumping weakly in the possessive hold he was trapped in, and the hollow sound seemed to echo in the eerie silence.

Voldemort must have taken that as a cue to start talking; Harry didn't bother listening, instead focusing all of his energy into staying upright. At some point a pale, long-fingered hand grasped his chin and moved his head, as if Harry himself were looking around; Harry supposed Voldemort was gloating over his "defeat" of the Boy-Who-Lived.

He must have finally struck a nerve somewhere, for one moment all was still and the next there were spells flying everywhere. No one was attacking Voldemort, though, not even Dumbledore. Not head on. The Dark Lord was using Harry as a shield _(the cunning bastard; no one on the Light side would attack their Savior…)_.

The turning point in the battle came by the way of Severus Snape, and Harry _had_ to admire the man for being able to do all the things he did as a spy and still stay loyal to Albus Dumbledore. The Potion's Master attacked Voldemort from behind his own lines—he distracted the Dark Lord, causing him to release Harry.

Harry saw the best opportunity he would ever get, and carefully recalled the incantation for the spell he had found in the Black Library. He was sure that had the Ministry know about it, they would have deemed it punishable by the Dementor's Kiss. That was the thing though; Harry was sure that they didn't know, that _no one else_ knew of the spell…how he was so sure of that he couldn't be sure, but he trusted the feeling. Maybe because after he'd memorized the incantation the book had disappeared from his hands, as if it had never been there at all. It was for the best.

The spell, if preformed correctly, was supposed to rip the magic out of the target's very _soul_ and adding it to the caster's own. If done incorrectly, however, it would kill both the caster and the target. The way Harry saw it this was the perfect spell for the situation, whichever way it ended.

As he whispered the complicated incantation under his breath, Harry felt his magic gathering in his hands. Just as Voldemort was turning back to him, having dispatched Snape, Harry struck out and grabbed either side of the pale face in his charged hands; he watched intently as the red eyes shifted from showing surprise to blinding agony. The Dark Lord _screamed_, high and inhuman. The room went suddenly still and silent, poised and waiting.

Harry's eyes stayed locked onto the agonized, serpentine eyes of the Dark Lord, his fingers digging into the _creature's_ face, eyen as he felt a rush of power flow into him and his eyes blurred momentarily from a terrible ripping sensation in his chest.

The Dark Lord Voldemort fell dead at his feet, and he staggered and fell not a moment later between physical exhaustion and the sensation of the older, twisted magic meshing with his own.

Someone shouted his name—it might have been Hermione—and suddenly there was chaos again; spellfire and fleeing bodies blacked him off from everyone. He was too weakened to move from where he fell, next to the—was it _dissolving_?—corpse of the former Dark Lord. His eyelids felt weighted down; he couldn't open his eyes, even to see _whose_ cruel, bony hands had grabbed his stick-thin arms and started to manually haul him across the Atrium floor.

The noise quieted suddenly, and Harry was sure they were now heading deeper into the Ministry. With the sudden surge of vertigo he realized that the person had levitated him; they kept moving, the person smashing him violently against the walls, even as they continued on towards _some_ destination. His head smashed hard against a wall—

Harry regained consciousness as he was dropped onto what felt like cold, shattered flagstones. He felt a trickle of blood make its way down his face, but his entire body hurt and such a small wound was hard to pinpoint by pain alone…

Then Harry heard whispering, and it wasn't from the person who had brought him here; no, he could hear _them_ pacing some feet away, their footsteps echoing loudly. No, he hadn't heard whispering like this since..!

Harry managed to open his eyes long enough to confirm that—yes—he was in the Department of Mysteries again, in the Death Chamber, and was lying only a couple feet from the Veil. The very same Veil his godfather was thrown into almost exactly two years ago, by his cousin Bellatrix LeStrange.

The loud clicks of high-heeled shoes on flagstones came close to his head, and—speak of the devil—Bellatrix LeStrange started screeching at him. How she would get rid of him the same way she got rid of her pathetic cousin; shameful, muggle-loving, blood-traitor that he was. But Harry didn't care. He'd never intended to live after the "Final Battle" anyway; he'd expected to die. He _did_ think, though, that gloating monologues must be a trait one acquires when they "go dark" _(or go insane—interchangeable, really…)_. He's vaguely thankful that he'll apparently die before he can get to that point.

The feeling of vertigo came again, and then suddenly it felt like he was being slowly immersed in something icy-cold and viscous. The whispers grew in volume until it felt like someone was screaming in his ears; he forced his eyes open and saw, through the translucent material of the Veil, Bellatrix _(just as crazy looking as ever)_ right in front of him.

Harry flung out a hand and snarled the Killing Curse, every bit of hate he could muster going into the spell, just as a group of Order members—Dumbledore at the lead—ran into the Chamber. Bellatrix fell to the ground, dead, from the flash of sickly green light.

The world fell around him, and in a far corner of his mind Harry realized that the Veil was being destroyed.


	2. Chapter 1: A Few Minor Changes

**A/N:** Wow, that's a bit daunting… I go to sleep after posting the Prologue, and wake up with 90 things from Fanfiction in my inbox. Just wow. Oh, and an important note. **Go read this story's warnings on my Author profile; it's the only warning you'll get.**

Chapter 1: A Few Minor Changes…

The sensation he experienced was like reverse apparation; instead of feeling squeezed through a narrow tube it was like he was being ripped in every direction at once. He felt that it was only his willpower—his magic—that kept him together at all. Then it altered, feeling like he was being forced through his animagus transformation, and Harry was sure that he'd been partway through changing before he stubbornly forced himself back to rights. It could have gone on for an eternity, or just a few seconds, but Harry _knew_ that he almost hadn't made it…

_(Made it where? What..?)_

And then suddenly…it stopped. Harry was lying on soft ground, inhaling warm, somewhat humid air, and hearing birdsong and rustling leaves. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but trees and vibrant foliage, but…something was…wrong?

He furrowed his brows and concentrated, then closed his eyes again and groaned quietly, nearly pained. He muttered a quiet _"What the hell?"_ and checked again for good measure, getting the same results.

There was no ambient magic, wherever he was. None at all. Just what did he get himself into this time?

'Ambient magic', before, was something he'd only read about—it was usually mentioned in conjunction with warding, or higher spell casting for the less magically strong—but something he never put any real thought into. It was one of those things that you don't _really_ notice until it's not there anymore. Like the hum of electricity though a muggle house; you only notice the static noise when you're left in absolute silence from a power outage.

The only thing that kept Harry from panicking over the void of outer magic was that he could still feel _his_ magic, tied to his soul as it was. The whole situation confused him terribly, however; even the most muggle areas had been saturated in ambient magic. Even places that were in the middle of nowhere, or places that had been utterly destroyed. Magic was practically a force of nature! He couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea that _magic wasn't here_.

Harry inhaled shakily from his sprawled position on the ground, eyes still closed and body still weak, even if he wasn't so cripplingly exhausted. It smelled so…clean, wherever he was. Unpolluted. There wasn't a trace of smog in the air, not the sound of a vehicle in the distance, nor an airplane in the sky. All Harry could hear were nature sounds; animal and plant sounds.

He was unsure how long he laid there with his eyes closed, just breathing and letting himself wind down from something that he _knew_ should have killed him. Either the Ministry Battle _or_ the trip through the Veil. It had to have been at least a few hours, from the angle of the sunlight hitting his eyelids.

It was only when—with a bone-deep, weary sigh—he finally fought to sit up and open his eyes that he realized that something had gone horribly, _horribly_ wrong.

His gaze fell to his right hand, which was—curiously enough—completely obscured by the tattered sleeve of his charcoal gray, prisoner issue robe. It was curious, because Harry was _pretty damn sure_ the robe had fit properly before. He felt himself start to frown at the extra inches of material as he tugged the sleeve up to expose his hand.

The almost-frown turned into a grimace, with a bit of a spastic eye twitch thrown in for good measure. He knew that eight months with no exposure to light would turn anyone pale—it hadn't helped either when he stopped going outside in his sixth year—but this was more than a little ridiculous. His skin was almost paper-white; he was fucking _Voldemort_ pale, and _damn_ was that saying something. The scar on the back of his hand—_"I must not tell lies"_—stood out more starkly than it ever had, though it was still the same pale pink of an old scar.

His paleness wasn't what told him something was wrong, however. His hand was smaller, but his _(thin, bony)_ fingers were proportionately too long. Then there was the small issue of his fingernails turning _dark and fucking pointed_! They weren't really all that long, though still longer than he liked, but he sure as hell didn't remember Voldemort ever sitting there and filing and painting his nails! He would have remembered that, surely! _(There was something else odd about his nails, as well, but he couldn't pinpoint what…)_

Harry shook the sleeve back over his hand, and then his sluggish mind realized the implications of what his too large robe—and the rest of his clothes, by the feel of it—meant. He had shrunk! He knew he had been short for his age, but he must be a midget now!

He groaned brokenly and let himself fall back onto the comfy ground. _(He could call the ground comfy if he damn well pleased; you try sitting on hard stone for eight months and then try and deny that soft grass wasn't comfortable!)_. _Gods Above_, he had just killed the most evil Dark Lord in centuries—he deserved his pity-party!—but did all this shit _always_ have to happen to him?

His thoughts on the Dark Lord, however brief, triggered Harry's latent paranoia; all at once he realized the vulnerable position he was in. Sure, there didn't appear to be people around, but there _were_ animals; he could hear them! What if there was something dangerous and he—weak and vulnerable—looked like a good meal?

Standing up was far harder than sitting up had been, and staying upright was just as difficult as it had been in the Ministry. His clothes suddenly being at least eight inches too long didn't help any, either.

Growling, Harry drew his arms into the robe and pulled the drawstring tighter on the thin pants—so as not to walk out of them—and then folded the extra material up to the best of his ability. He stumbled over to lean against a tree and listened carefully, before deciding he still had _some_ measure of luck left; he could hear moving water nearby. Before his meager strength completely diminished he intended to get there, at least.

Looking east _(if the sun still set in the west here, anyway…he really had _no_ clue where he was…)_ Harry could just barely make out the glimmer of water through the bushes. He'd only made it a couple feet in that direction when a hare bound out in front of him, nearly startling him into falling. The brown mammal looked at him with large eyes—

And promptly dropped dead. _(Hey, he wasn't that ugly, was he?)_ Harry was torn between amusement and horror; just what the hell happened _this time?_

Harry sighed and shook his head, continuing in the direction of the water, pausing long enough to grab the hare by its front paw—and swinging it in a parody of a child with a stuffed animal, sending a spike of amusement through him. There was no sense in wasting the meat, especially as it had practically fallen into his lap; although he didn't feel hungry he hadn't eaten anything solid in _eight months_, and he had to start rebuilding his strength sometime.

When he broke out of the undergrowth Harry saw that the water was a small river—almost a large creek, really—whose banks were made of many smooth rocks. If he had to guess, he'd say that it was running lower than it usually did (the closest plants were still a dozen feet from the water), so wherever he'd landed probably wasn't in its rainy season. Or it was in a drought.

Harry carefully picked his way over the smooth rocks to the sluggishly moving water. He dropped the rabbit next to him; it made a kind of thump-splat noise that dragged an odd little giggle passed his lips. He paused momentarily, not _quite_ sure what was funny about the noise, before shrugging it off as not important; it felt pretty good to laugh at something, anyway. He stared at the rabbit another moment before he pulled the robe up over his head and sat it off to the side—he didn't want to get blood on it. Blood was hard to get out of clothing, even with magic.

Moving gingerly Harry lowered himself to sit—nearly sighing in relief; he was _so weak_—but on the water's wavering surface he though he saw something…wrong…with his reflection. It was moving too much to get a clear picture, though. Harry frowned and grabbed a fist-sided rock; it took barely any effort to transfigure it into a flat mirror.

…

Well. Somehow he doubted anyone back in the Wizarding World could recognize him now.

Apparently he hadn't _just_ shrunk; somehow he looked younger _(even if the sharp angles of his face—ones that showed so readily because of starvation—aged him somewhat)_. Actually, he barely looked like he could pass as a teenager at all, and it kind of pissed him off because he was almost _eighteen goddamnit!_ That wouldn't be why no one would recognize him, however. Harry didn't look much like himself at all: The structure of his face was thinner and sharper, and he _knew_ that it had nothing to do with him looking like a famine victim, though it would probably change again once he'd gained some weight.

Harry realized queasily, with a horrified sort of fascination, that he looked quite a bit like Voldemort after his rebirth. He wondered if his appearance had anything to do with taking the Dark Lord's magic; that body _had_ been born from a spell, from magic, after all…

His hands were resolutely still as Harry studied the details of his new face. Hm, at least he still had a proper nose. It was rather hard to fit in without a proper nose; he probably would have thrown a fit if he'd had those creepy slits that Voldemort called nostrils. No matter how much Harry liked snakes…no. Just no.

He still had hair, too, and it was still black. It was dull and lank—to be expected, really—, and didn't defy gravity as much as before, but he couldn't complain. His eyes weren't red, either—

Harry stared. Well, damn, that explained the hare dropping dead, anyway; Harry would recognize _those_ eyes anywhere. Basilisk eyes. He couldn't tell where the sclera ended and the iris began; his eyes were now completely, vividly, toxic yellow, broken only by the thin vertical line of black he recognized as elliptical pupils. He took a moment to raise a hand to put his face in shadow; it was interesting to watch his pupils expand and contract, and very hard to look away. It made him look very…inhuman.

Exhaling a little hopelessly Harry allowed himself to shift into his animagus form, feeling a little thrill at being able to change again, though he'd only done it a couple times while still at Hogwarts. He slowly reared up from his prone position on the sun-warmed stones, swiveling to look at the small mirror. If he'd been capable of it in this form, he would have frowned, but settled for hissing wordlessly instead. He was significantly smaller in this body, as well: Though still intimidating, his previously impressive crest of black feather-like scales was less full, and he was now closer to thirty feet long than sixty.

Feh. He smashed the little mirror with his tail and reared his head higher off the ground, flicking his tongue out as his keen eyes scanned the trees past the opposite bank. This apparent de-aging was a bit annoying, but he could get over it—it definitely wasn't the worst thing that could have happened by surviving eminent death. A shiver went down his entire spine at the though of Voldemort's survival of death; stuck as something less than a ghost for _thirteen years_…

He shook his head and instead turned to contemplate the dead hare sprawled next to him. The though of eating it didn't disgust him in the least, especially when he scented it and all that registered was "food". If he ate in this form, though, he didn't know if it would be safe to transform back to a human after; the basilisk stomach was much larger than a human one, and he didn't know if his magic would compensate for the food or if he would inadvertently rupture his stomach if he didn't finish digesting first. There weren't many cases of a wizard having so large an animagus form, so he hadn't had a lot to learn from. And what would happen if he ate and then ran into a human before he felt he could transform back? Nope, no good.

Harry shifted back to his human form—a glance at one of the mirror shards revealed his eyes to still be yellow—well, mostly human anyway. He'd halfheartedly hoped that a shift would have reversed his snakey-trait but, well—he shrugged—it wasn't too bad. He'd think of something…it would be hard as hell to blend in with normal people now, though. _(Eh, whatever…)_

His attention refocused to the slowly cooling mammal still sitting by his side; it smelled just as appetizing as a couple minutes ago, even if it _was_ raw…Wait. Harry paused; there was more than one thing wrong with that thought, though he decided to focus on only one of them. Still _smelled_?

A wave of his hand repaired the broken rock-turned-mirror and had it levitating before his face. Harry deliberately stuck his tongue out and stared, unimpressed, at the thin, _black_, _**forked**_ thing that was his tongue. How bloody annoying.

It was rather hard to be disappointed about _anything_ after fulfilling a life or death prophecy and then surviving a trip through the Veil of Death, but Harry was getting there. He sat, scowling at the mirror, wondering (somewhat sarcastically) if the dark, purplish bruising around his eyes would be permanent, too. Seriously though, Voldemort—in all _his_ snake-ish-ness—had absolutely _nothing_ on Harry.

He shifted on the rocks and sullenly prodded the limp food item with his index finger; he suspected, idly, that if he had his old strength his new claw would have punctured its hide. Alas, his finger strength would definitely not allow him to puncture the skin, let alone remove it to get to the flesh. He tilted his head, thoughtful, before tracing a finger down the animal's spine, the skin splitting with a controlled cutting curse. From there it was the small matter of sticking his fingers into the wound and loosening the skin from the flesh, then cutting the loosened hide away.

Being squeamish was something he'd lost rather quickly into his sixth year, even before he'd preformed the ritual. Seeing and performing—he _had_ been in Voldemort's head at the time, after all—_Black_ spells and torture every time you slept would leave even the most softhearted at least desensitized after a while. Skinning a dead animal had nothing on skinning a live, four year old muggle.

He frowned, tilting his head slightly and hands stilled from their work. Well. That last though didn't bother him as much as it used to…Huh. Should he be worried..? _Gasp! Oh no!_ Maybe he'd truly "gone dark"! _(Maybe he'd start to monologue soon!)_ Harry choked on a giggle; yeah, sure. Harry was pretty sure he'd AK himself the first time he started to monologue an evil speech.

The skin had been entirely stripped away from the back, and his fingers were liberally covered in slick, cooling blood. His tongue flicked out again, and the scent stirred a response in his stomach. _Hunger_. The suddenness of the sensation was surprising, and quite painful, causing Harry to curl in on himself and grimace. His mouth felt hot and he swallowed bile down; he had to eat, _now_. Harry raked his claws down the exposed flash, parallel to the spine, and it split; he didn't know, and didn't _care_, if it was his nails or a spell that actually cut the meat.

It really didn't _look_ all that appetizing—though Harry had been forced to eat worse while still living with the Dursleys—but Harry pulled a strip of rabbit meat off the rest of the carcass, squeezing it between his fingers to test the texture. He gave a mental shrug, stomach still screaming for food, and slipped the stringy meat past his lips…The first taste he got was of blood, and granted, it tasted rather good. An experimental chew resulted in the gamey meat shredding into fine ribbons; not the usual sensation of chewing raw meat, for sure.

The mirror was brought once more to face level; Harry bared his teeth to get a look…and promptly started laughing, a slightly unhinged giggle at that. That was all he could do when faced with this situation anymore; it _was_ actually funny though, especially the though of smiling at anyone. Still giggling Harry stuck a finger in his mouth to feel his new, rather scary, teeth. They were narrower than before, but all were longer and much sharper; his canines looked particularly wicked, but there were at least two more sets of "fangs" that looked just as menacing. Harry wondered offhandedly if he was venomous: It would make sense, with this kind of teeth, because unlike most serpents the basilisk had more than one set of venom-injecting fangs.

His stomach stopped trying to kill him after the first swallow of rabbit but Harry continued to eat, giggling slightly as he did so. He was exceptionally pleased that the taste didn't repulse him. It meant that he would be able to live off the land if he couldn't locate people: It would have been terribly embarrassing to die of starvation after all the crap he'd managed to survive. Too quickly though, he realized not eating for so long had reeked havoc on his ability to do so at all; the handful of flesh seemed to make him _too full_ and it was almost purged…Harry swallowed the lump back down, grimacing in distaste. That…was annoying.

Dragging a bloody finger across his lips, Harry turned to the sky, spotting the sun through the thick leaves of the many trees. He guessed it to be mid-afternoon, but that wasn't the concern; Harry was making plans for himself, thinking as he hadn't done in months. His mind was surprisingly quick on the uptake.

His first goal was to find people, but even before that he would have to prepare. His eyes were priority; there was no way he would walk around with his eyes closed, but killing people (on accident, no less) was out of the question. His appearance was somewhat of a problem, as well, but there was even less he could do about that. Yes, a glamour spell could work—even if it wasn't his best work, Harry had tried hard to become proficient in all aspects of magic—until he fell unconscious, of course. A glamour of the magnitude needed to disguise his skin color, for example, would unravel when he fell asleep, or even into meditation. In a way, hiding under a glamour could be more disastrous, as he would go from looking normal to quite unnatural, _and_ having some sort of power. Muggles never took well to surprises like that.

A glamour still wouldn't have been ruled out so completely if it wasn't for the fact that they could unravel in high-stress situations. Harry hadn't tested his temper in a while, but in a situation where he got worked up enough to drop his disguise…yeah. Worse than it unraveling while he slept.

Harry pushed the thoughts of illusions out of mind as a permanent solution; it would be a fallback if (and probably when, knowing his luck) he _really_ needed to go unnoticed.

Transfiguration, on the other hand, sounded like a more solid fallback and much less likely to come undone without him willing it to. That boded testing before he would ever consider trying it on himself, however; transfiguring something as delicate as an eye (more so than his tongue or skin) could permanently blind him if it went wrong. He wouldn't chance it, no matter _how well _he currently knew the theory. That thought, too, was disregarded for an immediate solution.

No, as of now appearance wasn't so much a concern. Harry needed to find something to keep him from _killing_ (or petrifying) anything that looked him in the eye…

Harry sighed softly, turning his eyes away from the vibrant green leaves and back to the rather mauled looking hare. He absently cast a preserving charm to keep the flesh from going rancid and then shifted slightly on the rocks, gingerly moving closer to the water. Too-long fingers added streaks of red to his barely-there reflection on the stream's surface; the bright yellow of his eyes the only thing that stood out starkly.

Harry frowned, staring hard at the water; maybe he was over-thinking the solution. All he needed were his eyes obscured; so long as they couldn't _see_ his eyes they shouldn't be fatal. He tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, catching sight of the dark lump of cloth in his peripheral vision. His overlarge robe. Yes, that could work…

The dark material—at one time coarse but now soft from wear—tore easily against his nimble, if weak, fingers. Harry carefully ripped the bottom hem off, leaving him with a dark ribbon a couple feet long and a few inches wide; a blindfold. He scrubbed the material between his hands in the creek's cool water to get rid of the worst of the…_grime_…before holding it over his eyes experimentally. Worn as it was the blindfold left him, well, practically _blind_.

Harry scowled for all of two seconds before he wanted to hit himself for being stupid; was he a wizard or not? He tied the cloth over his eyes, knotting it tightly at the back of his head and tucking the trailing tails into his shirt, before proceeding to weave his magic through it, casting a spell usually used for spying. Another look at the mirror proved the spell to be satisfactory; his eyes couldn't be seen by anyone looking, but Harry saw everything clearly (if a bit dim, as if he were wearing sunglasses).

Nodding to himself Harry reversed the transfiguration, the mirror becoming just another stone. He had long since become uncomfortable sitting upon the uneven river rocks and now forced himself to stand. Thankfully, he had the energy to stand, but was now experiencing the start of an all-over burning _ache_; it felt like he'd just run himself past exhaustion. Swaying wearily on his feet Harry decided that he _would not_ backtrack, so crossing the water it was.

Frowning hatefully at his shaking limbs Harry levitated the robe and rabbit behind him, knowing on a certain level that it wouldn't tire his magic in the least to do so but it would exhaust his physical strength beyond moving to be weighted down by a wet robe. He waded carefully into the cool water—at its deepest it tugged at his calves—and shivered slightly as the water leeched further up the material of his pants. He shivered and almost fell but stubbornly kept forward, slipping into the deeper shadows cast by the trees. The only noises became his gasps for air, the rustling of disturbed leaves as he moved and the occasional wet patter of blood as the rabbit carcass floated along behind him. His thoughts kept whirling along the track of _'Gee, I wish Voldemort was still alive so I could _kill him again_ for wrecking my body worse than the Dursleys ever did.'_

He collapsed on the soft grass, against the base of a tree; a silent, ugly snarl twisted his face as his muscles screamed agony and exhaustion. He cancelled the levitation spell, the rabbit thumping down and spattering blood across the grass—and his legs—and his robe dropping onto his lap. It took a moment of struggling but Harry managed to pull the article on properly, slumping weakly afterwards. This weakness was quite…_troublesome_.

After many minutes of lying silently at the base of a tree, still exhausted, Harry realized with some dread that he would have to do something he had not willingly done in almost two years…Sleep. It had actually gotten to the point where Harry _would not_ sleep; he would meditate deeply _(supposedly the first step in learning Occlumency, but Harry couldn't go any further than that, no matter how hard he tried)_ to rest his body and mind, but it just couldn't rejuvenate him like sleep was supposed to. It still rested him more than Voldemort's visions would allow him; they couldn't be sent as easily if he meditated instead.

Sadly enough, though, Harry hadn't had enough time to waste it by sitting around pseudo-sleeping: Most of the time he would suddenly drop from physical and mental exhaustion. Later on, during his time with Voldemort, he was usually Stunned unconscious, if he wasn't already out…

In short, Harry's experiences with sleep were _bad_. Nearing the point of developing a _phobia _bad_._

The decision was ultimately taken out of his hands; one moment he was staring up at the thick canopy of rustling leaves and the next his magic surged inward and his vision blacked around the edges—

Pained whimpering and furious, wordless hisses were the sounds Harry woke to. He wondered, in a vague, detached sort of way, just who pissed off Voldemort enough to make him sic Nagini on them. He knew better than to even think about why the Dark Lord had moved him to lie down, on something _soft_ at that. Yes, better not to think about that… Instead, Harry wondered why it was brighter than usual, behind his closed eyes, and why the air was _warm_.

The whimpering was now accompanied by choked sobs—Harry felt no pity—but the hissing had stopped. Harry was puzzled as to why the snake had sounded so _angry_, because if he though about it, it really hadn't sounded like Nagini's voice and most snakes that were called upon were rather quiet about their attacks…

Then his tongue flicked out—seemingly of its own accord—and he was bombarded with a multitude of scents, and he remembered that he was _free_. But…now he was _far_ more confused as to why the scent of distressed _(dying)_ human male and potent venom and angry snake were anywhere _near_ him. He wouldn't know if he just stayed lying here, though, so he pushed himself to sit upright and opened his eyes.

He blinked at the scene that greeted him in the dim, pre-dawn light. There was a man convulsing on the ground, maybe ten feet away from Harry, and there was a knife of some sort just out of the man's reach; apparently dropped. More interesting than _that_—in Harry's own, biased opinion—was the strange reddish-orange colored snake looking at him, and if Harry had to guess he would say it was surprised.

Harry noticed as it slithered towards him that its scales shimmered attractively, like fire; he had never heard of a snake like this before. It came to rest on his outstretched legs, head low and non-threatening as its bright red tongue flicked out to scent him. Harry leaned closer to the serpent and scented it in turn; it smelled of a sort of musk that could only ever be "snake", but also of a bitter tang that he somehow knew to be venom.

"Lord Snake?" the unusual serpent hissed, and Harry was amused. He knew the basilisk was called the "King of Serpents" but he had assumed the title had been given by humans…

"Call me Harry, pretty one," Harry purred quietly. He found that most snakes were more agreeable after complementing them, but the endearment slipped out naturally, as a truth. He sought out the eyes and found them to be lustrous orange, with perfectly round pupils.

"Lord Harry, then," it hissed in turn, and Harry rolled his eyes behind the blindfold; stubborn snake. "Are you well?" It sounded _concerned_ of all things, and flicked its tongue out again. The implications of the action were clear; it could smell his current weakness.

"I will be well in time," Harry placated, for he _wasn't_ well, and he didn't feel like lying over something like that right now. Onto pressing matters, though… "Why is there a human writhing about over there?" he asked, head tilted towards the fallen man.

"I bit him," it said plaintively, a hint of its previous fury creeping into its tone. "He will be dead soon." The orange eyes turned to the fallen man—he was whimpering again—and seemed proud of the statement.

Harry's eyes turned back to the wickedly sharp knife for a moment before returning to the fire-patterned serpent. "Thank you for protecting me, little friend. It is quite fortuitous that you were here…whenever you got here," he muttered the last part, noting again that it was barely dawn; he'd been unconscious for somewhere near half a day, if not longer.

His protector preened under the praise and Harry smiled at it fondly; it felt strange to smile after so long and the expression was quickly gone. He scooped up the sinuous body and settled the creature over his shoulders—where it sat quite contently—before forcing himself to stand. It was easier to move today, even if his muscles still ached terribly from overexertion.

Stepping lightly towards the man Harry thinks that he must suffer from terrible luck, to sneak up on someone defenseless and still be struck down. He kneeled beside the man, negligently banishing the knife a few more feet away, and prodded the sweaty brow with his index finger. Pain-glazed brown eyes opened, locking onto his face briefly, before landing on the vibrantly colored snake wrapped tightly around his shoulders. The man jerked away (as much as he could while lying down and in agonized pain, which wasn't much) and screamed at him.

In a language Harry had never heard before.

Well. Wasn't that just _wonderful_. _(Note the sarcasm.)_

He looked more closely at the man, this time noticing the different facial structure, darker-than-his skin tone _(or, well, previous skin tone; he'd be willing to bet that right now _everyone_ had darker skin than him…)_, and coarser, more functional than attractive clothes. Harry frowned in though for a moment, but an idea quickly sprang to mind, and he moved closer and deliberately scented the man. Pain was an interesting smell-taste _(he was still a bit unsure about that…)_; there was fear in it too. Fear was quite acrid, but pleasing to him on a level he suspected to be his "basilisk thoughts". Under that there was decay, the man's body breaking down around him, and that was what Harry was searching for. The man _would_ die, regardless of what Harry did.

Harry nodded to himself; yes, there would be no consequence in trying. "Don't look at my eyes, pretty," he hissed to his companion, and didn't move until he felt it slither under his robe.

Harry half-stood and rolled the shaking man completely flat on his back before moving to straddle the man's chest, at the same time pinning the quaking, venom-weakened arms to his sides using his knees. The dying man was gasping weakly and had shut his eyes against the pain; Harry lowered his blindfold.

Thumb and index fingers on the upper and lower lids of the man's tightly-clenched eyes, Harry readied his magic for something he had never actively tried before… Everything would need to happen quickly, since he didn't know if it would work through the blindfold, and the man wouldn't last much longer anyway… A muttered _"Legilimens"_ even before he forced the pain-glazed eyes open… Pulled into the man's mind even as his body stiffens in the shock of instant death.

_It's almost dawn and he needs to check the traps before anything gets to them and ruins the fur; the village a day's travel east is holding market in a few days and he has a few prepared furs to sell…_

_A small clearing by his third trap—empty—and he sees a still, corpse-pale body lying at the base of a tree, one of the deadly-poisonous snakes native to Grass country still poised a few feet from the child. He draws a knife, but at his movement the fire-scaled beast sprung itself from the ground and latched onto his throat…_

_A clammy finger breaks through the agony of his burning blood and he sees the blinded corpse-child kneeling beside him, the serpent wrapped serenely over thin shoulders…_

_The boy exposing a black, forked tongue before an unholy hissing passed the pale, blood-smeared lips, the snake on its shoulders moving into the odd clothing the snake-demon was shrouded in…_

_A light weight settling on his chest, restricting his already difficult breathing and any movement of his arms…_

_Cold fingers with sharp claws prying open his eyes…_

_The most vivid yellow he had ever seen, staring out from purple-black markings set into a sharp, apathetic face…_

Harry jerked out of the blackness that was the dead man's mind. The man had been foolish, attempting to slay the snake in some misguided attempt to avenge the death of someone he didn't even know. He pulled the blindfold back over his eyes, smoothing it with sleeve-covered hands, and carefully stood from his seat on the corpse.

"It is safe to look again, pretty one," Harry hissed pleasantly. "Thank you for protecting me," Even if the man meant no harm to him—believed him dead already—it still felt, well, _nice_ to have someone willing to kill to keep him safe.

Absently rubbing a phantom pain over his heart, Harry pondered the unusual experience of his first attempt at Legilimency; unusual because it felt like he had used it before. He _knew_ he had never used it before, simply because it required another person's mind to rifle through, and _he worked alone_. It also appeared, from what he had read in the Room of Requirement, that he was a natural Legilimens, a direct contradiction of his abysmal Occlumency skills. A few more seconds of searching and he probably would have found what he was looking for; knowledge of the language the man spoke. He _did_ know, now, where the nearest settlement was, so he wasn't disappointed; he knew of another quick way to learn the language.

Harry was unsure, but pleased, with his skill in the Mind Arts; it was not at all common (proof being that he only knew of three wizards who had mastered the skill; Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Tom Marvolo Riddle…). If properly harnessed he would be able to identify a lie, no matter how well a person could hide the signs, just by looking at their eyes. He frowned to himself; if he had known about his apparent proficiency before he probably could have gleaned the information _through_ his blindfold and kept the fur-trapper alive longer, to learn more.

No—he shook his head—it probably wasn't good to take the knowledge of a language like that, he probably would have ended up copying an unusual speech pattern or something…

He shook his head again, this time in amusement at his thoughts, and made his way away from the body to where he had been sleeping. He felt his companion shift on his shoulders, its triangular head pressed against his throat. Harry felt no fear from the action, though, even after seeing the effect of its bite. Something was telling him he had little to fear from the venom or even from the snake at all. As he was constantly finding himself, Harry was unsure _why_ he felt—_knew_—this, but it was easy to trust this…instinct.

He yawned widely and sat back against the tree, careful not to lean on the snake. He wouldn't worry though, as long as his intuition held true.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** I liiike reviews, 'kay? Keep reviewing. I won't withhold chapters if I don't get reviews, but more reviews (especially the ones telling me what you liked, didn't like, questions and such) make me more motivated to get these chapters typed up more quickly. X3 Oh, and if you didn't see the top note **go check my profile for story warnings. They will likely not be posted in the story itself. You have been warned.**

On a side note, can any of you guess the direction this story will be taking?


	3. Chapter 2: Language of the Land

**A/N: **It has been brought to my attention that I have not adequately warned people about the possibility of eventual pairings in this fic. So here it is. I do not know if there is even going to **be** a pairing, but as I am not against slash, there is the possibility that it could be that. If you can't stand the idea of a slash pairing, I would hate for you to be angry for have wasted your time reading this fic, in the off chance a pairing develops, so this is a **warning of possible slash**. But you shouldn't be worrying about pairings right now…

Chapter 2; Language of the Land

It was easy for Harry to sit still for a long time, very easy. _That_ was mainly because in his last two months he _had_ to sit still; the slightest movement would always attract Voldemort's attention, and that was to be avoided at all costs. Harry was not a coward—not by a long shot—but he knew how to survive, and he knew he would have broken if he kept drawing attention to himself. So he never moved. Not for an itch, a cough, disgust at Voldemort's _attention_, horror at the acts committed in his presence _(although that had faded on its own)_…or the pain of his body wasting away around him.

It was still easy for Harry to keep himself still as death, but now he could relax. He saw the light of dawn creep through the forest—dimmed only slightly by his magicked blindfold—and heard the sounds of birds calling above him. The grass and earth under him was softer and warmer than the stone of the dungeon had ever been, even if there was dew on the grass.

The lingering feel of death in the clearing didn't damper his contentment in the least.

He looked at the corpse with bored eyes before turning his attention to the still-fresh and mangled rabbit. Harry didn't really feel hungry but his stomach no longer felt full, so he would eat again, and that was that. _(He hadn't yet lost everything growing up with the Dursleys taught him; he doubted he would.)_

Shifting to sit on his knees drew a sleepy hiss out of the snake still coiled around his shoulders. "Lord Harry?"

"Pretty one," Harry acknowledged as the fiery colored serpent slithered down onto the grass beside him. "After I eat I intend to start moving east, to a human gathering place."

If the snake had been human it would have shifted uncomfortably; as it was Harry smelled the distress instead. "You may come with me, if you so desire," He couldn't deny how useful it was to have someone looking out for his wellbeing, even if he couldn't quite understand why it was so seemingly loyal.

"I will come with you," it hissed firmly, and Harry _(attempted to)_ smile at it fondly. He made quick work of rolling up his sleeves and tearing a few more strips of meat off the carcass; a good sized piece offered to and quickly swallowed by his companion. This time Harry managed to eat a bit more than he had the previous day, even if the cold meat wasn't quite as appetizing. With some amusement he found his tongue to be able to wrap around his fingers as he cleaned up his bloodied hands; it could be a nifty trick to creep people the hell out…if he decided to stay around people long enough to reveal his snakey-traits, anyway.

Shaking his sleeves back down Harry turned towards the sun, still low on the horizon but whose light was visible through the many trees. A day's travel east to the village the fur-trapper had intended to go to… Harry doubted, with all the underbrush to struggle through and in his current health that he would make it there in less than a week. He wanted to get there before the "market day" the man had been set to attend, though, as "market" implied more people, and for what he wanted to do more people were better.

When the solution came to him Harry smiled wickedly, showing more sharp teeth than most people were comfortable with. It would be a risk, but he would certainly make good time.

"Pretty one?" Harry hissed, still smiling, which was easy this time though it felt odd and probably looked quite terrifying: He couldn't help himself though, as he was enjoying the company. "I am going to change form, so you need to be careful not to look at my eyes."

"Yes, Lord Snake," was the quick and almost reverent response; Harry though the serpent was rather silly to think so much of a title…maybe he would ask about that some time…

Harry tugged his magic into the proper path and shifted smoothly into his basilisk form, everything becoming brighter as the blocking effect of his blindfold disappeared. He pointedly kept his head facing the opposite direction of his Fire Scales _(wait, _his_ Fire Scales? He was possessive of the creature already?)_ even as he coiled the rest of his body close.

"You should be safe if you shelter in my crest," Harry hissed, his voice resonating oddly from his many-fanged mouth. He stayed perfectly still as he felt the significantly smaller serpent move over his body and tangle itself in the long black feather-scales of his crest. "You have a proper grip?" he asked as a precaution, and only started to move when he got an affirmative answer.

Checking once more the direction of the sun Harry slid smoothly out of the clearing, leaving the dead man and mangled rabbit behind. He easily kept to the ground, moving efficiently through the brush that would have hindered him in human shape.

Travel in this form seemed to consume less energy than walking; he supposed it had to with the sheer proportion of muscle a snake's body is composed of. Even though this form still reflected that he was dangerously underweight it was easier to deal with…perhaps because snakes could go so long between meals? It was purely speculation on his part and was something he intended to look into…maybe sometime after he got used to this strange, magic-dead place he'd landed in.

More than a few times Harry had to stop himself from following a tempting scent trail,—deer; of course, something size appropriate to feed this body—instead traveling pointedly East. Twice he came upon clever snares that carried the very faint scent of the fur-trapper, so he was confident that he was still heading in the right direction.

Harry reared up and hissed in surprise—startling nearby birds into fast flight—when the forest abruptly gave way to a well-tended dirt road. Coiling back into the shelter the bushes offered he cautiously scented the air; the human scent was prominent, the most recent less than a day old. Sure that no one was nearby he allowed himself to relax, marginally, noticing that he had gone into high alert; it was a reflex he thought he'd lost during his stay with the Dark Lord.

"It is time for me to change back, little one," Harry hissed—noticing with not little amusement just how sinister his voice sounded—and felt his red and orange companion disentangling itself from inside his crest and slithering down his back.

His shift back to human was less than spectacular: Harry was unprepared for the sudden weakness, stumbling and slumping to the ground when he was left standing on shaking legs. Breathing heavily and fingers curling into the ground beneath him Harry ended up lying belly down in the afternoon sun, again physically exhausted.

"Lord Harry?" queried the snake from beside his head, apparently realizing it was safe from his gaze now. Harry's breaths were still coming in harsh gasps, though his eyes were open and locked steadily on the snake. "What is it, Lord Harry?" it moved closer, tongue flicking and almost touching the blindfold.

Harry took another deep breath, but his voice quivered with exhaustion when he spoke. "I just…didn't notice…I used so much energy," Gods, he really wanted to kill Voldemort again…_fucking bastard_…

The snake contemplated him for a moment. "Don't move, Lord Harry. I will be back soon," Harry nodded, cheek brushing the grass he was lying on, and his companion disappeared back into the forest.

Some time passed before Harry was able to move again, and even then he was only able to roll over onto his back. The slant of light coming through the leaves said it was probably sometime early in the afternoon; he had barely noticed the passage of time as he traveled. More worrisome was that he hadn't _felt_ exhausted in his other form, meaning he very well could have killed himself if he'd kept traveling. How embarrassing, to die of _exhaustion_ of all things… It meant that becoming a basilisk was a very unsafe thing to do if he intended to change forms regularly, at least until he had recovered.

It probably wasn't safe to be in such a deadly _(and recognizable)_ shape this close to humans in the first place. There was far too great a chance of accidentally killing someone _(he was very aware of how wrong that sounded…)_ and he could very much do without the pandemonium that would bring…

Harry stretched his fingers and started to pick dirt out from under his sharp nails. He considered ripping the sleeves of his robe shorter—the extra inches of material were a little cumbersome—but eventually decided against it. It wasn't like he had or needed a wand anymore, so it wouldn't hinder his magic any, and they could be useful for hiding things…_ (like his creepy fingers, since he wouldn't be using a glamour.)_

The bushes close by rustled with movement and Harry stiffened, still weak, his magic tingling under his skin in preparation of use. Scenting the air had him relaxing, however, and the magic stopped buzzing to attack. It was just Pretty One returning, and they had—he blinked—mouse? It was a freshly dead mouse, strong with the potent tang of venom and only the barest hint of blood.

Harry forced himself to sit up and was immediately treated with the amusing sight of his companion—a sleek serpent of about three feet—carrying a plump brown mouse in its jaws. It slithered _(clumsily)_ into his lap and dropped the mouse; Harry saw the glint of blood on it's fangs as they withdrew.

"You need to eat, Lord Harry," his companion, now caretaker apparently, _scolded_ him. "I can _smell_ the humans from here, and you need your strength to deal with them." This was said with some disdain as the serpent settled itself over his shoulders once more.

"You put your venom in it," Harry stated blandly, shaking his sleeves up enough to expose pale fingers. "Will I be able to eat it safely?" He wasn't going to argue about eating a mouse _(he'd eaten worse before)_; it did smell rather appetizing, venom and all…

Pretty One gave him a funny look, and Harry couldn't tell if the snake was more expressive or if he was just getting better at reading its moods. "Your venom is greater than mine, _Lord Snake_," the title was stressed but Harry just smiled. It was confirmed, then; he _was_ venomous. Again, post-ritual Voldemort had _nothing_ on him. "My venom is as harmless to you as it is to me."

"Thank you for your care, friend," Harry purred, stroking the triangular head with a single finger, and getting a sleepy "Always, Lord Harry," in response. He looked at the mouse speculatively: It would be a hassle to eat the flesh as he had the hare, with the mouse being so much smaller. He knew how snakes ate, though, and when he contemplated the idea further it seemed right…and he _was_ getting quite hungry.

He lifted the rodent gingerly, feeling blood still seeping from the fang-punctures on its side and clumping the silky fur together. Shaking his head once to get the greasy strands of his hair away from his mouth he brought the mouse closer, shivering slightly at the sensation of fur on his lips. _Hungry_. He opened his mouth wide enough to get the head past his _(longer, thinner, sharper)_ teeth, and some sort of reflex was triggered: He swallowed, feeling muscles he was pretty sure _weren't_ there before clenching and drawing the mouse down his throat. His teeth sliced the passing skin easily, filling his mouth with the flavor of blood as his throat clenched powerfully, crushing the mammal and drawing it into his stomach whole.

The experience of eating like that was odd, but strangely satisfying. His forked tongue flicked out to capture a bit of blood that had escaped the corner of his mouth, and Harry hummed in contentment.

It seemed that some energy had returned to him a short while later and Harry stood slowly, careful not to awaken his companion. He exited the cover of the trees to stand on the hard-packed dirt of the road. The sun overhead was past its peak; he really had made good time, better than he'd expected.

Harry started walking eastward on the road, the dirt beneath his bare feet pleasantly warm and heat gathering on his dark robe comfortable as well. The sun's light itself bothered him, however, and shortly enough he had pulled the large hood low over his face. It was probably for the best, even if it looked more suspicious; it would _really_ suck to get sunburn, which he imagined was only too easy on his sun-deprived skin.

He walked slowly, eyes trained on his feet—precautionary; he didn't want to trip on the extra inches of robe that dragged the ground, but was loathe tearing off any more—as he ignored the weak protests from his muscles at every movement. He ignored the pain as he ignored the weakness and exhaustion that shrouded him as fully as the robe did…the more quickly he got this done the sooner he could safely isolate himself and recover.

Again, Harry was left clueless as to why, upon waking in this strange place with no magic in the air his priority was to find people. Right now he wanted absolutely nothing to do with people _(people: ugly to the soul, mean, fickle, cruel people…)_. The only thing that was keeping him going, now that he'd discovered his ease with eating readily available game and had a companion to talk to—and keeping him from regressing to talking to himself, as he'd done near the beginning of his time in the cell—was that it was quite likely no one spoke English. Learning the language of the land was vital because Harry knew eventually his weird luck would strike again and everything would go _a lot_ better if he knew what the people would be screaming about…

Harry sighed. Sometimes he felt very old…if he'd said that before it wouldn't sound so ridiculous; he couldn't understand why he looked like a fucking kid again…

Scenting the air seemed to have become a reflex quickly enough, so Harry was aware of the nearness of the village before he could see it. He stopped walking when the forest edging the road started to thin and ran a covered hand over the serpent clinging close to his throat.

"Perhaps you should move out of sight," he said once he was sure Pretty was awake and listening. "There will probably be many humans; I need them nearby to learn how to speak like them. I would like for you to avoid attacking unless one of us is in danger." He wouldn't outright order a companion who protected and joined him of their own volition, but he had the feeling his words were taken as orders anyway.

Harry wasn't treated to a verbal response, but as soon as he started walking again he felt scales slide across his throat and the sinuous body settle under his robe. As amusing as he felt it would be to have people jumping away from him for having a venomous snake settled comfortably on his shoulders—and oh, _did_ he find it amusing—that would draw rather more attention than he needed. Especially as there would probably be questions (that he couldn't understand, let alone answer), if not outright violence. People tended to become rather stupid when scared.

Hmm. He should probably try to keep his conversations with pretty one quiet, as well. Parseltongue—even if the snake language wouldn't hold the same stigma here as it did in the Wizarding World—would likely still be viewed as a dark talent. Well, that or they think he's a loon for making weird hissy-noises; he giggled a little at the though. Or, in the other hand they could go the way of the fur-trapper and decide that he's some sort of snake demon, and than idea intrigues him greatly.

Feh. Either way it would be best to keep both Fire Scales and his ability to speak Parseltongue a secret; for some reason the "bad guys" always seemed to favor snakes _(and ruining it for everyone else who favored the creatures)_ and something—maybe that strange intuition again—was saying that it was no different here. _(Again, wherever _here_ was.)_

Harry lifted his head enough to see from under the edge of his hood as he slowly drew closer to the village. Thank the Gods, it appeared to be an open village; there was no wall, nor did there appear to be any guards checking the people who came in. Harry sighed in relief; his luck was still good at the moment.

Observing the surroundings as he continued sedately along the road—no longer alone, with the din of many voices speaking an unknown language buzzing in his ears—Harry found himself _very_ interested in this place. It reminded him somewhat of Hogsmeade, not for the building style or anything but for the eclectic mix of shops and residences. There weren't any buildings above two floors, and he saw no outward signs of electricity…_But._ But there were some almost-modern hints to some of the buildings, the signs. Not to mention the people. Yes, most wore the rough, work-hardy clothing like the fur-trapper, but some also wore distinctly more modern clothing.

It led Harry to believe that he _had_ landed in the middle of nowhere; a rural village in a world that also had urban areas. Interesting…

Harry kept on the main road—the busiest—as smaller paths branched off, presumably leading into more residences. The further in he walked the louder and more hectic the traffic became; he was just thankful it didn't hold a candle to, say, Diagon Alley's back to school bustle. As it was, the first time someone brushed past him he barely restrained himself from lashing out…it was intriguing that the urge to bite was just as strong as to use his magic.

Thankfully, he didn't attack and most people seemed more caught up in their business than to pay him any mind. The exception to that rule was—of _course_—the children, who both pointed and stared. One group seemed to be organized; Harry was violently reminded of Dudley's little street gang. There were maybe a dozen of them, ranging from ages ten to fifteen—Harry was dismayed to notice that he wasn't any taller than most of them—and they appeared to find it funny to run up to him, block his way, and then scatter as they laughed.

The third time he was forced to stop he twitched violently and let out a wordless snarl through clenched teeth; stupid children, what the hell was _wrong_ with them? His agitation drew his companion out of hiding and Harry watched with borderline sadistic amusement as the children scattered when pretty one feigned a strike, hissing furiously. _(And he almost started laughing, because his companion was hissing "Stupid human hatchlings should die! Come hear and let me kill you!")_. The wicked grin lingered on his face as he started walking again without interruption, the vibrant serpent again hidden from view, though Harry felt its head on his collarbone still.

_There._

Harry slipped unobtrusively through the noisy crowd; he finally had discovered an adequate spot. A small almost-alley between two structures: One a two-floor home that's ground floor _may_ have doubled as a restaurant, and the other seemed to be some sort of pawn shop, if the eclectic collection of mixed wares he spied meant anything. It was a high traffic area but no one seemed to pay the little inlet any mind, even as Harry slunk in and immediately cast a weak notice-me-not charm over the entrance. Just a moment afterwards—just as soon as he was sure he was _safe_—he slumped against one of the close walls and then settled himself as comfortably as he could.

Observing the people moving along the road while he impatiently waited for his limbs to stop shaking again, Harry placed a hand atop the snake hidden under his robes.

"Little friend," he spoke in a bare whisper, feeling the serpent shift in acknowledgement. "I need to ask you to gather me food: I know a way to learn their language quickly, but I fear it will drain me beyond the ability to move afterward."

Orange eyes peeked out to stare at him. "Just don't kill yourself, Lord Harry," A flash of red and orange shot out of his robe and into a nearby structure, presumably to hunt. Harry chuckled lowly, throwing one last glance outside the alley before he began the learning process…by slowing his breathing.

It was another technique he picked up during his sixth year from one of the Room's many useful tomes—one of the first Hogwarts _insisted_ on, actually—and it was an amazing technique. One that was probably lost to the entirety of the Wizarding World, actually. Unfortunately, it was also one that he had used only a couple times; one of the reasons he had _mastered_ his animagus transformation in less than a year. Every good spell had its drawback though; this technique _quickly_ put the user into a state of full out exhaustion, and it was _painful_.

It was worth it.

By pulling one's magic from the natural flow throughout the body and then using it to manually cut off all but one of the senses—usually sight, touch or hearing; whatever you needed to be able to learn—and then forcing _all_ that magic into the remaining, intact sense…It became possible to learn _anything_. _(__**Accomplish**__ anything.)_

It took an insane amount of power and magical control—both of which Harry had in spades _(and especially now, now that he had both his __**and**__ Voldemort's magic)_.

Harry withdrew all his magic—the sheer _quantity_ taking longer than usual—and only then discovered that some of it had been reaching out and _feeling_ his surroundings. That was probably why he was so aware that there was no other magic here…Huh.

Smell and taste were cut off together and Harry winced minutely at the sudden _lack_ of information; they were apparently vital senses now. His sense of touch—sensation—went next and he couldn't feel himself shiver, even if he _knew_ he had. At least he couldn't feel the constant pain, anymore. Sight went last, and Harry closed his eyes, if only to remind himself that—_no_—he was not in the dark cell, he did this to himself…

He needed to hear for it to work this time…Harry had the feeling that he would wish he was deaf by the time this language was learned. It didn't help any that he _knew_ this technique hurt more than half of the torture spells he'd learned…

Directing the fleeting movement of his magic by force of will alone, Harry pooled and compressed every iota of the energy into his brain; the magic knew his intention and went where it was needed.

Quite suddenly the entire world consisted of sound, the many voices of people nearby and their strange language overlapping and then separating. Shrieking children, haggling adults, arguing couples, nagging parents and rasping elders. Various dialects and accents. Forms of endearment, insult and respect. Honorifics? Curses, praises, places…

Almost complete silence. He reached his limit.

In a rush his magic redistributed itself under his skin; his senses blurred and returned immediately afterwards, with them most especially _pain_. His ears throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but his brain _burned_ from his magic etching the dual learning/knowing experience into it. He hissed and grabbed his head, eyes watering as he pressed his temples desperately. The kind of pain this technique generated could be classified as torture—except most people didn't have the control to harness their magic that way, even ordered to under the Imperius curse—and put any curse-scar headache to shame. _(Which was saying something, as he'd used to go into convulsions from them…)_ He was shaking uncontrollably, with no hope of stopping it.

When the pain dulled off somewhat Harry realized it was quite late, and the moon was high overhead. Wow, the moon looked so much _larger_ here…Harry absently wiped the blood from around his ears and nose, knowing he may have overdone the technique, but rather more distracted by the silvery light to care.

"Lord Harry?" his pretty one was coiled on his lap sounding—of all things—_concerned_. A pile of four mice sat just within arms reach, all cool and smelling of venom.

"Such a good friend you are," Harry crooned, voice wavering, and he brought a hand down to stroke the smooth scales. "I am fine, Fire Scales, just drained. Hopefully I will only have to do this once more, maybe twice." He then reached out and swallowed two mice in quick succession, feeling hungrier than he had in _months_. More aware, as well, which was rather odd for being in the grips of crippling exhaustion.

"You should sleep, pretty," Harry stated, even as he lifted the snake and pulled it into the warmer recesses of his worn robe. It made to protest but Harry left no room for argument _(caretaker or not)_. "I need to review what I learned, and I need you to watch for me tomorrow if I am to rest. Sleep now." He got an annoyed huff in response, but there was no further argument.

Leaning his back more fully against one of the alley walls, Harry relaxed, enjoying the near silence after such a noise-filled day. It was very dark, even with such a seemingly close moon casting silvery cold light. He longed to remove his blindfold, even though the dimness it cast over his eyes didn't seem to affect his vision in the least. It was probably pretty safe to assume he had received the incredibly acute sight from his other form…_literally_ basilisk eyes, then; a human's night vision was not normally this sharp.

He sighed softly and decided he'd distracted himself enough, it was time to prove that he didn't just subject himself to torture for nothing. With barely a though he dragged the new words to the front of his mind; one at a time he recognized the sounds of the word, its meaning—stolen subliminally from the people's minds—and mouthed it silently before moving to the next. This first time had been very important for building a large pool of vocabulary, more so than when he had used this to learn back in Hogwarts. With no ambient magic here for him to leech off of he had to rely _completely_ on the power of his own magic.

Simply put, if he had been any weaker and tried this in a magical void _(like this world was)_ he probably would have just given himself brain damage. But as he was now, he still couldn't have another session so intense, so soon, unless he wanted to take that same risk. His magic was strong enough, but his body was not; one wouldn't want to take such a risk even when they were _healthy_. As he did not want to stay longer in this village than _absolutely necessary_ Harry would be satisfied with a large pool of vocabulary to build upon—proper speech patterns, as well—so he could _leave_.

So yeah…maybe being around so many people was bothering him more than he'd originally thought…

By first light Harry had devoured the two remaining mice and was confident that his magic worked as intended; that he could easily call upon and translate the words he heard, and would hear. When the first early risers started to appear on the street Harry quietly roused the snake, which at some point had migrated under his shirt and was curled directly upon his stomach.

The first thing the serpent did upon emerging was tell him to sleep. Harry was reluctant to agree; his magic could soothe and heal his body better if he was to sleep…but it was _sleep_. He couldn't just _sleep_. Harry didn't tell his companion that, however; simply warned it against biting humans in the unlikely event that someone discovered the alley. After a while he gave in and sank into meditation, though it took him much longer than it ever had before—almost convincing him that it was impossible—and he very nearly gave up. The void of no-magic all around him was unsettling.

It was the sun that dragged him out of his pseudo-sleep, annoying as it was. It had reached its zenith; about the only point in the sky where it could cast light directly into his alley and dissolve the cool shadows. _(It cast so much __**light**__ and __**warmth**__; Harry didn't think he much cared for the sun, anymore.)_

Harry blinked slowly and rubbed his eyes through the blindfold as he watched people go about their business. It seemed somewhat busier than the day before, with little stalls selling various wares cropping up in a large area clear of buildings almost directly across from his alley. Once, a large horse-drawn carriage went by, a line of people trailing after it; Harry spotted a fancy symbol carved into the side and assumed it held some person of importance…or nobility.

A group of children ran by—Harry bared his teeth in a snarl; they were the same gang that had provoked him yesterday—and he tilted his head as their raised voices reached his ears. He could actually understand some of what they said.

"Hurry, …! The bastard's … up, … faster!" One of the older boys was shouting forcefully, even as he was laughing. They passed from view, all going down one of the main road's smaller branches. A moment later an enraged middle-aged man appeared from the direction the kids had come from,—interestingly enough, he was almost completely covered in some sticky substance and a substantial amount of feathers—shouting obscenities, and becoming the object of everyone's laughter as he ran by.

Huh. That had worked better than he had expected for only trying once…maybe because his magic was more potent that before? Of course, he wouldn't complain; it meant he could leave sooner.

"Pretty one," Harry stated quietly, and shiny orange eyes turned to him from within one of the few remaining shadows at the mouth of the alley. "I will be listening again today, but not as deeply. You may go hunt or explore if you wish; I will be able to rouse myself if there is any trouble."

The eyes continued to stare at him for a moment, likely trying to judge the truthfulness of his words, before they bobbed in a short nod. "Thank you, Lord Harry. I will bring you food, as well." And it was again flashing away, into the crack in a wall. Harry smiled faintly in the direction it had been as he settled himself for another (less intense_)_ day of learning.

He found it easier this time—easier on his mind—because instead of cutting off his "unneeded" senses completely he only muted them. This time it was similar to a minor cold dulling his smell and taste, a numbing solution affecting his entire body and simply closing his eyes, while his hearing sharpened. If Harry was honest with himself—and oh, was he trying to be—it wasn't the exhaustion that put him off doing this more often, nor was it the risk or even the tortuous brain-burn it left in its wake.

No, what bothered Harry was that in the deepest state—the time at which learning was most efficient—you couldn't feel yourself breathe. Couldn't feel your heart beat. Couldn't feel if someone walked in and stabbed you fatally. He likened it to your body being dead while your mind was still alive _(and it drove a violent shiver down his spine, because that's how Voldemort was stuck for thirteen years…)_ It also left Harry with the uncomfortable reminder of what possession felt like, minus the pain.

Besides that, and it may have had something to do with a madman trying to kill him since he was a _baby_, but Harry was very fond of being alive, thank-you-very-much!

He reached his limit at sunset, returning his senses to their usual sharpness and jerking him out of the world of sound. There were still people wandering the streets, bathed in the orange glow of the failing light, though the crowd was very much thinned from earlier. He shifted minutely to stretch his cramped muscles and felt Fire Scales again curled directly on the skin of his stomach.

A slight weight on one of his folded knees caught his attention and Harry found a large brown mouse—still warm—placed there. Hissing a quiet thanks Harry swallowed the mouse; he had to open his mouth much wider for this one to pass his teeth and was _very_ surprised he didn't gag. The mouse was nearly the size of a rat. Sighing in contentment at the taste of blood in his mouth and a full stomach, Harry proceeded to draw forth the day's new words.

The new language was coming to mind more quickly and it pleased him immensely; it meant that soon enough he would know enough to talk himself out of any situation he got into. Harry wouldn't fool himself. It was inevitable that he'd get into some trouble soon enough, or caught in the middle of _some_ situation, whether it was his fault or not.

Darkness fell and the streets emptied—but for the occasional skulking person, usually reeking of malcontent—and Harry decided to try his tongue at the new language. There _was_ a difference between knowing the sounds and being able to speak comprehensibly. It took more concentration to speak when it wasn't Parseltongue, but not that much. He noted, absently, that at some point the snake language had become his default language—not English.

"Even speaking the human tongue you sound like a snake, Lord Harry," Pretty One hissed in his ear, having coiled around his shoulders shortly after Harry started acclimating himself to speaking.

He stopped his recital and tilted his head curiously. "What do you mean, Pretty?"

The snake hissed in amusement. "Listen to yourself when you speak," was all it replied before settling again.

He furrowed his brows in confusion but spoke a random sentence, listening to his voice carefully and comparing it to how he remembered to people to have spoken. He stopped short when he realized what Pretty was trying to point out. Harry felt a surge of his (increasingly common) hybrid emotion; amusement and horror. He had an accent. _Not_ an English accent.

He had a _Parseltongue_ accent.

Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration—before quickly removing them and wiping them on his robe; eww, why hadn't he washed his hair while at the creek?—and groaned softly. Of all the things magic could do, why couldn't it give him a less conspicuous accent?

He could pronounce the language well enough—it didn't make his speech incomprehensible—but it was definitely serpentine; he hissed his "_s_" sounds and all his other words sounded rather airy and sinister. _(He sounded like Voldemort…hesoundedlikebloodyVoldemort!)_ Perfect. Bloody _perfect_. At this rate he may as well have a neon sign floating over his head proclaiming "Hey, I can turn into a _great bloody __**snake**__!_"

Sighing, he continued until he was sure the pronunciation of all his words was recognizable; he could only hope that over time his accent would fade, and in the mean time people wouldn't read too much into it…

As gray pre-dawn light filled the village and Harry felt a presence moving towards his alley he realized, a bit too late, that he should have renewed the fading notice-me-not charm earlier.

He had not, however, so he froze in his pronunciation practice and hissed for Pretty One to hide. It was too early yet for children to be out; the only ones that _were_ out were the people setting up their wares in the stands that had cropped up in the open area.

Harry didn't relax the slightest bit when the presence revealed itself to be a middle aged woman. He saw that she wore a clean apron over her clothes and assumed—for her to be out at this hour—that she worked in a restaurant. Maybe the one whose wall he was leaning against..? Blast!

She was standing at the mouth of the alley, looking at him with furrowed brows and a frown, one hand raised to worry her bottom lip and the other clutching the apron over her heart. Her light eyes flickered to the building he was leaning against and she grimaced, looking back at him.

Harry didn't even twitch, but met her eyes through his blindfold and with barely a thought he was unobtrusively skimming the woman's surface thoughts _(it felt so familiar; why? He had never done this before…)_. He almost giggled: She thought he was a corpse. Oh, hmm, she had seen him enter the alley two days ago and couldn't figure out why she hadn't thought to check before now…

"Oh, you poor child," she said quietly—Harry wanted to frown at the "child" part, but remained still—and stepped forward, making to remove his hood.

It was only then that he moved, jerking his head sharply to face her and tilting it back, so that he could better maintain eye contact from under the low hem of his hood. Coincidentally, that move allowed the woman to clearly see the blindfold _and_ the gaunt state of his face. If her expression had been startled when he first moved then it was positively _shocked_ when she saw his face; she gasped, outstretched hand flying up to cover her mouth.

Harry felt Fire Scales slither onto his shoulders under the robe, head just inside and tongue flickering lightly over his collarbone. It would be ready, just in case the need arose for it to strike.

Bracing his covered hands on the wall behind him, Harry levered himself up and stood stiffly, watching the woman with his head tilted slightly to one side. There were many things that could happen but Harry was content to let this play out instead of just running; it may have had something to do with the fact that while skimming her mind he'd found only concern.

She was still starting at him with light colored eyes. He thought they might be blue, but they could have been gray…

"O-oh my," she stuttered after a long minute of silence, rediscovering her ability to speak.

Harry just barely kept himself from giggling—he had the most peculiar feeling that this would be the reaction he would get from people for a while—although he couldn't _quite_ figure out why it was so funny.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N: **Your reviews make me so happy; I would love to get more~ Tell me what you think; ask your questions. Like I said before, very relevant questions will be answered in my author profile and warnings will be there as well. I suggest you read them.


	4. Chapter 3: When Luck finally Fails

**A/N: **Whew. I finally got this chapter up. Hopefully the others won't take as long, but my free time becomes severly limited when we're a person short at work -.-

Anyway, tell me what you think! And remember, if you want an answer to a question you ask in your review make sure you're allowing PMs ^^' As usual, especially relavant questions are answered on my profile~

Chapter 3; When Luck finally Fails

"A-are you okay?" the apron-wearing woman stuttered when it became apparent Harry had no intention to speak. An embarrassed flush darkened her face as she likely realized just how silly that question was. _(Of course he wasn't okay, she could __**see**__ that.)_ Harry tilted his head to the side, grimacing minutely as some of his greasy hair dragged over his face, but otherwise didn't react to her question. Something in him found her apparent discomfort greatly amusing.

"Would you like something to eat?" she tried again, her voice more steady this time. Harry didn't even have to think over her question: No, he had no desire to eat, his stomach still full from that almost-rat that had been the size of his hand. He shook his head slowly, he was not hungry but he was—

"Thirsty," he pronounced slowly and carefully, trying and mostly failing to keep his disquieting accent out of the word. To her credit the woman appeared taken aback for only a moment before she nodded kindly and beckoned him to follow her.

"Come on in and I'll get you some water," she said softly, but with an underlying tone of steel; she didn't seem to want to take 'no' for an answer. She took half a step towards him, looking like she intended to help direct him, before she hesitated and apparently though better of it. Harry was somewhat grateful for that; he wasn't sure how he would react if she were to touch him.

They walked slowly into the establishment—he had been correct, they were going into the restaurant/house he had leaned against—and were immediately set upon by a young man. Harry paused momentarily and blinked; the man had _lavender_ colored hair…naturally, unless he dyed his eyebrows and lashes, too. That was…_interesting_.

Before the lavender haired adult started to speak Harry took a moment to lament over his lost height. Sure, he had still been below average _adult _height before he went through the Veil but now he literally had to look up to _everyone_. Being short sucked…

"Hey Michi-san," he greeted as he practically bounced across the room. "Who's the kid?" Dark eyes were narrowed at Harry as he was looked up and down; Harry frowned minutely. "You look like the kid those other brats were talking about; said some creepy kid kept a snake in his clothes and threatened them with it."

Harry shrugged dismissively, not allowing his annoyance to show; it figured that he'd run into someone who actually _listened_ to what children said. He needn't have worried, however. The woman—'Michi-san'—scoffed and pushed past the apprehensive man as she headed towards a door at the back of the large room they stood in.

"You should know better than to listen to those hooligans, even if your brother runs with them," she sniped, and the man shrunk down under her tone. It sounded like this argument had occurred before. "So you just leave the poor boy alone!"

Silence fell when the woman when through the door and the two were left staring at one another. Lavender-man was caught somewhere between petulant sulking and glaring, but Harry paid him only enough mind to make sure the man wouldn't attack him; priority, at the moment, was making sure his shaking legs didn't fall out from under him. Really though, he was going to need to work on his strength somehow; the constant weakness was getting very annoying, _very_ fast.

Harry's eyes drifted to the door "Michi" left through. He though it was curious that she had noticed him entering the alley two days previous; even if his robe did stand out he was still only one (small) person in a large crowd. Hmm…she could be very suspicious by nature…or just nosy on a level to rival one deceased Petunia Dursley.

The woman returned, right hand holding a large glass of water and her eyes immediately locked on him. Harry was almost sure now her eyes were blue. She quietly directed him to sit at a small table in the corner _(it was almost like she was afraid to be too loud around him)_; he placed his back to the wall and had a direct line of sight to the door leading outside. The glass was placed on the table before him, and he looked at it dully for a long moment before drawing it closer with both sleeve covered hands.

"Thank you," he said quietly, out of reflex, and to his ears it sounded awkward…and childish. Gripping the glass tightly he brought it to his lips, scenting it as stealthily as he could—_water, only water, nothing else…_—before sipping the cool liquid. He didn't realize how thirsty he was until the glass rapped heavily against the wooden table top, empty, a dribble of water down his chin and his stomach full to bursting. "Thank you," he repeated breathlessly, finding the two still watching him, the woman looking heartbroken but the man curiously blank.

Harry sighed and slumped back in the chair—_he really wanted to fold his arms and lay his head down and rest__**relax**__recover but there were people__**strangers**__danger and they could touch__**hurt**__kill him if he didn't __**watch**__ them and_—he sat up straight and shook his head. The hell..? The fore of his mind was foggy; he shoved a spark of magic through to make himself focus and it thankfully worked. He found himself shivering, though not cold, and he frowned again; what the _hell_?

"Hey," Harry looked up, startled, to see the man looming at his side, the frown on his face thoughtful. "Why don't you stay in here; I think we can spare this table for a day." Harry followed his glance towards the blue-eyed woman and saw her nod. Her face held an expression he couldn't read but he didn't bother looking at her thoughts. Instead he nodded silently, halfheartedly thinking that he'd get a better opportunity to expand his knowledge of their language while in an establishment.

They left to the back room—presumably to cook, as this _was_ a restaurant—and left him alone in the main room. He was more than a little confused about the two; they hadn't even asked his name. That was normally the first thing one did when they found someone alone…

"Pretty," he whispered, head lowered and shoulders slumped forward to further hide his actions. The serpent stirred at his voice but remained silent and hidden. "If you want to hunt today you should leave now. There will be many humans around and I don't know when I'll be able to leave."

The voice that answered was as quiet as his own. "No, Lord Harry, I will stay. I do not trust these humans with you." it said, rather bluntly. Harry didn't argue, simply murmuring a vague agreement and then leaning back in his seat.

The hours of the morning passed quietly. At one point Michi refilled his glass but otherwise the two stayed in the back room, the kitchen, the smell of cooking food beginning to waft from the closed doorway.

Harry found himself becoming increasingly twitchy as the light became brighter and the noise on the street outside louder. When the door he was watching so intently actually opened he barely kept himself from jumping, his fingers digging into his thighs under the table. He decided then and there that, _no_, he would not be able to do this the entire day. The stress would probably kill him. _(Why was the mere presence of other people sending his heart racing? Why were his hands even now shaking?)_

He stood as quickly as he could and started towards the door, and his luck chose that moment to act up. Both Michi and Lavender-man came out of the kitchen to greet the customer, and both saw him less than a foot from the door.

"Where are you going?" Michi didn't sound curious or even accusing, rather, she sounded sad. The customer looked dumbstruck—he hadn't noticed Harry in the corner, apparently—and Lavender-man was frowning, but not actually angry.

"I can't," Harry muttered to himself. He didn't know why these people—_looming over him bigbigbig go awayaway__**away**__!_—made him want to run and hide, but he _knew_ he couldn't stay here. He would leave, find another alley for a few days and then go live in the forest…

"You can't what?" Lavender-man had moved into his space once more _(too close, get __**away**__)!_, and this time Harry jerked back, inadvertently slamming his back into the doorframe he was practically leaning against. It hurt _a lot_ more than he expected and he hissed through his teeth even as his eyes watered and burned…and _that_ drew Pretty out of his robes, hissing furiously at them for daring to cause him hurt. The three others in the restaurant had gone still, after Lavender-man had reached the other side of the room, of course.

"I can't," Harry repeated, his throat tight and _why_ did it sound like he was going to cry? He pulled the hissing serpent back into the collar of his robe—he was shaking again, damn it!—and fled out into the street. The sun was high and there were people _everywhere_—_nonono too many, too many! His mind spiraled and started to pull back and_—he forced more magic through his mind, wincing at the burn and making himself _focus_.

Okay, he had to get away from the restaurant and find another place to hide away. He escaped the crowd by going down a side-street, adrenaline fueling a mad sprint into an abandoned, half-collapsed house. He crawled and slithered under fallen beams and panels, stairs and probably what used to be the entire second floor, and only stopped moving when he reached the farthest corner from where he entered. For the longest time the sound of his heart pounding in his ears was the only thing he could hear; the stinging of his throat from harsh gasps of air all he could feel.

Then the sting of fangs sliding into his throat and a brief shock of numb coldness as venom spread from the bite...

He slid back into his mind, unsure when he had retreated, blinking his eyes a few times to clear the itching dryness. He felt Pretty One's fangs still in his neck and found himself grateful, rather than scared, at receiving a dose of its venom.

"You can let go," he said, voice dry and rasping, then shivered slightly at the feeling of the thin fangs leaving his flesh. A warm trickle of blood left the punctures: Harry grounded himself in the sensation. "Why did you bite me?" It most definitely hadn't seemed like his companion was trying to _kill_ him, after all, so he was actually clueless as to what the small serpent had intended by the action.

When no answer was given Harry simply hummed, watching without really seeing as the (very little) light that reached his hidden corner turned slowly from dusty white to fiery orange. He could feel the dirt and grit settling onto his face and hair; at some point in his mad dash his hood had fallen.

He sniffled once and drew his knees to his chest, rocking slightly _(it felt familiar, something he must have done many times)_…it took more willpower that it should have to keep the moisture burning his eyes from falling, and it only made him angry. Why was he crying _now_? He was _free_ now, it was all over! …But he still felt like he was going to cry, like he _needed_ to.

But he didn't. He just rocked himself for a while, silent in the dark. Eventually Pretty allowed him to curl it close to his chest like the stuffed animal he never had as a child.

It helped.

The light left and came again, weak and gray. He was coaxed into eating a mouse but otherwise left alone to listen to the ruin of a house creak and groan around him. Pretty came and went; Harry suspected the snake was keeping watch, even if it would never admit to it.

When the light left and came once more, signifying the start of the third day he sheltered in the ruin, his companion made a point of getting his attention. Without warning the serpent sank its fangs deep into the delicate skin of his neck and injected a dose of venom that would be lethal to anyone else. As it was, Harry's only reaction was to stifle a moan and shiver pleasantly as the icy burn worked through his veins.

"Something on your mind?" he murmured, feeling pleasantly lucid from spending almost two full days without hearing the sound of a human voice.

"I do not like it here, Lord Harry," it told him after removing fangs from flesh, quite serious. "I do not trust these humans. You needed to learn their tongue, but I do not feel it is safe to stay here any longer. I must insist that we move on. Soon." If it weren't for the fact that the serpent sounded so very grave, Harry would have poked fun at it for talking so much.

When he digested what was said, though, he found he couldn't dismiss his companion's—friend's?—concern. He _trusted_ the little serpent. "What brought on these concerns?" The sinuous body wrapped closer around his neck in a sign of discomfort, and the voice that spoke was quieted with worry.

"There are humans where you sheltered between walls—" the alley, then "—that spoke with the ones who gave you water," The worry radiating from the small form intensified greatly. "They move like predators on a hunt. They saw me watching them, and they tried to strike me, even tried to follow me when I went into a wall. I feel they are looking for _you_, Lord Harry, and I fear for you…"

"They attacked you?" Harry snarled through clenched teeth, his magic spiking alarmingly. What _right_ did they have to attack his friend?

"Please, Lord Harry!" Pretty's head was practically in his ear and the coils had tightened to the point of inflicting pain. "Can we not just leave? I do not matter but you must live!" The vehemence in this statement took Harry aback, enough to calm his rampant magic before it could bring the ruin down on his head.

Harry ran his fingers over his lips pensively, snapping into forced calm quickly at the serious circumstances; rushing into a potentially hostile situation without thought would only get him killed. Pretty one had said "humans", plural, which meant he was outnumbered, which was not a good thing, especially since he didn't know by how many (and Fire Scales admitted you not knowing, either). They were looking for _him_: Michi and Lavender must have given a description, as well as mentioning his companion if the attack was anything to go by. Shit, they knew what he looked like…might have to glamour…Damn it all to hell…Gods, and now that he knew about it he'd be twitchy until he left…

"I know enough of their tongue to get by." Harry conceded after a long stretch of silence, and the coils around his throat loosened. "We will leave now, so you need to hide again." He shifted on the soft ground, vaguely upset with having to leave even if he knew it to now be necessary.

"Yes, Lord Harry," the hiss was airy, suggesting a sigh of relief which had Harry smirking despite himself, even if he couldn't understand why it was so concerned about his continued survival. Why, when he was still so weak, it called him Lord.

By the time Harry was out of the ruin he was completely covered in dirt and wondering how the hell he'd managed to get his way in there in the first place. Huffily glaring at the sun he tugged his hood up before remembering that people were _looking for him_ and he'd need to weave a glamour over himself. His brain stalled and he twitched for all of two seconds before he threw up mental hands in defeat and just cast a notice-me-not charm over himself. _(The sun was just too damn bright for him to go without his hood and…he just didn't feel like using a glamour to hide his appearance. The idea just didn't sit well.)_

Backtracking to the main road was simple enough; he just had to follow the noise. The sight of such a large crowd of people froze him momentarily before he sneered disdainfully and continued on; at least they wouldn't pay him any mind. The beauty of the charm, he reflected, was that it diverted attention away from him instead of making him invisible: The people weren't running into him, but moving around him like a stream parts for a stone.

Harry kept his eyes firmly on the ground before him in an effort to ignore the proximity—_far, __**far**__ too close—_of the humans as their many voices washed over him. He made no effort to actively translate, and a far part of his wandering mind insisted that the language _almost_ sounded like what he though Japanese should sound like. That was silly though, because he knew Japan was as rich in ambient magic as anywhere else in the world…

Feh. It didn't matter.

Pretty stirred on his shoulders as they passed the alley, but it stayed silent; Harry never removed his eyes from the ground before him but knew the moment they passed. His scent lingered…it was fairly unusual, as there was almost nothing "human" _(warm, mammal)_ about it. A concern for another time _(as if he were concerned)_.

His steps were sure and steady as he slipped through the crowd, finding leaving easier than entering had been. Quicker, too, although he couldn't decide if he had recovered strength or was just not feeling fatigue in his eagerness to be gone from the village. When the last of the buildings disappeared and the people on the road were far between Harry allowed his charm to fall away and released his magic from the tight hold he'd held it under. This time he felt it when his senses were augmented, when he "felt" someone suddenly speeding _away_ from him and back towards the village.

He turned just enough to see a light haired boy running full tilt down the dirt road. He shivered at the sense of foreboding the sight brought forth and continued towards the shelter of the trees.

No more than twenty minutes into the forest something tingled against the outermost edge of magic spreading out from his form. He turned sharply and scented the air intently, tongue lingering outside his mouth for a few seconds, Fire Scales stirring restlessly. Nothing…but he could _feel_ something.

"Do you smell anything?" he hissed to his companion—this sense was still new to him, maybe he was just missing something?—even as he let down his hood to free his peripheral vision. What he felt, it wasn't normal, not how all the other villagers had felt…he was wary.

Pretty reared up like a cobra, the vibrant scales flickering like fire as it swayed beside his head; when it spoke the sound was harsh, _furious_. "The hunters, Lord Harry!" Then it caught itself, apparently realizing something. "No! Lord Harry, they have power!" It wound itself up higher, head swiveling towards the high branches of the trees on either side of the road.

_Power?_ Gods, what kind of place was this? No, he couldn't think now; the feel his magic picked up on before was closer, registering as separate presences now. Three of them, surrounding him on three sides. From above. Harry stared intently into the thick foliage but saw nothing; he felt them though, felt the _power_ that Pretty recognized before him.

He pulled in some of his loose magic until it practically buzzed under his skin. Deliberately, Harry looked at the places he _knew_ the humans to be hiding, even if he couldn't actually see them. "Show yourselves," he ordered lowly, enunciating carefully to keep himself from slipping into Parseltongue.

After a moment he continued. "Tell me why you are following me," Harry stubbornly pushed away the amused little though that said he must look quite silly; a blind little boy demanding answers from the trees. Another span of seconds passed and the presences hadn't moved, neither leaving nor dropping down.

Harry's impatience and anger were warring: These were the people who had attacked his friend, but why the hell couldn't they just leave him be? He couldn't reign in enough of his magic to keep his mood from manifesting; the temperature started to plummet.

"Show yourselves now, and I will not hold it against you," Harry snarled, Pretty One hissing to emphasize his point, though if the serpent could understand what he said in the human speech was debatable.

Almost in unison three light thumps sounded, and three people were loosely surrounding him. Harry's attention was immediately drawn to the strange way they dressed—which was odd, even having lived amongst wizards, who had the _strangest_ sense of fashion—which could have been some odd uniform, for the three were wearing practically the same thing. Thick green vests over mesh shirts; guards on their arms; form fitting pants of a neutral green color, but with white strips of cloth—bandages?—wrapped from knee to ankle. Around their foreheads were tied metal plates, and looking closely Harry saw a jagged zigzag symbol carved clearly into them.

He filed this all away in a moment but what kept him on the defensive was the way they were poised, tense, with their hands hovering by the pouches secured on their hips or upper thighs.

The temperature on the road remained uncomfortably cold.

"What do you want?" Harry demanded shortly, moving himself in such a way that two of them were in his line of sight, Fire Scales having turned to watch the one at his back. He scented the air and could tell the three were the slightest bit unnerved, even if it didn't show visibly.

"Answers," the one behind him finally spoke; Harry tensed and resisted the urge to look back at him in favor of watching the two others. He hated the feel of someone at his back, but he trusted Pretty to watch for him. "There are rumors of a demon-child wandering the village and threatening people with snakes."

His mind whirled; _Gods_, they had been watching for him but how did they _find_ him? Wait, that kid that was outside the village, the one who ran from him, could he have told? Damn it, damn it, _damn it.._!

"Answers?" Harry snarked, falling back on rudeness to cover his thoughts. "You have yet to ask me any questions; what could I tell you?" He really wanted to go back to the village and _eviscerate_ the people who had dared speak of him, dared send someone after him.

"Come on now," one of the ones in his sight spoke, the oldest looking of the group who was perhaps in his early 20's. "You know what we're saying, and that _is _a snake on your shoulder." Their fingers slipped into the pouch on their hip and Harry could feel his lips pulling away from his teeth in a snarl.

"I am not a demon," his voice was surprisingly level despite his temper, his accent diminished greatly by forcing himself to speak in a low tone. "No one was in any danger unless they were to attack myself or my companion first."

"That's not a very good argument," the last spoke up; Harry found his eyes drawn to their hands, which were before their chest and pressed into an odd arrangement. Then the odd not-magic power spiked.

Harry's magic flared violently in response and he saw the two in his sight startle, although he couldn't tell if it was because they could feel it or were simply reacting as the air around him distorted. He spun around at a warning hiss just in time to see the one who spoke first move his arm.

A strange weapon that resembled a knife was moving through the air, at his chest.

Fire Scales—quick as lightning—was moving from his shoulders.

The dark metal hit the wave of magic and distorted air, losing some momentum; Harry was off balance from spinning around. There was no way to dodge.

He was jerked further off balance and fell to his knees, giving a strangled keen of pain. Harry saw, lifting shaking hands to his chest, and knew the sharp, stabbing pain was more than physical. Pretty one was there, under his hands, coiled over his heart and unmoving; pinned and dead by the strange weapon that had passed through the serpent's body no less than four times before actually striking Harry.

His companion, caretaker, _friend_, had sacrificed itself to keep him alive.

Harry shook, the tremors strong enough to shake suspended blood off the looped hilt of the blade and to the dirt road. The pain left him; he was shaking in equal parts grief and _fury_.

His head snapped up; the trio was standing together, watching him. Unmoving. He opened his mouth and hissed furiously.

His magic exploded outward, lashing at them in a wave _(haunting green light moving with a terrible sound, mixed with crimson red; the color of pain, fueled by hate and anger…)_ even as they jumped away—faster than he'd even seen someone move, defying everything he'd known possible—before it turned inward and there was a sharp _crack!_.

He was being squeezed through a narrow rubber tube, but all he could think about was his Fire Scales and a very distant part of him only half-hoped he didn't splinch himself.

Harry appeared on his hands and knees in a dark, foreboding forest; his dead companion still pinned to his chest by the strange weapon that had killed it. He choked on a sob and grabbed the hilt, wrenching it out violently and screaming his grief into the too-still trees.

He screamed until his voice gave out and then screamed some more, until he was left choking on blood as his throat tore, making the sobs wracking his body that much more terrible. He viciously grabbed the blindfold and pulled it down, uncaring that he tore bloody furrows down his face with his strangely sharp nails. All he wanted was to see his friend properly.

He didn't bother smothering his cry at the sight; Fire Scales had taken the blade head on and open-mouthed, and how it was threaded upon the blade looked nearly intentional. Harry's eyes watered and burned until all he could make out was a fire colored blur. His companion, his _friend_, had sacrificed itself so that he could live: Harry didn't understand how it could do such a thing, to choose to care for him on a whim, and _die_ when he had never promised anything in return… The time they had known one another had been so _short_…

He could feel a steady stream of hot blood flowing down his chest and stomach, knew the wound was deep. He considered the wound, the little hole in his chest _(eyes blank; this wound was nothing, he was still alive yet)_, and decided to let it bleed. It wouldn't kill him.

Fire Scales made sure of it.

He sniffled quietly, throat burning, and carefully unstrung the cooling body of his companion from the blade. He could deal with physical pain easily enough, but he just _couldn't_ mute the emotional agony right now…couldn't retreat into _(or out of)_ his mind yet…

He pet the smooth scales lovingly, sticky with congealing blood though they were. His mind was whirling; he couldn't forget his Pretty One, not ever. He knew there was so much he was forgetting—in the past eight months, the past two—but he could _never_ let himself forget Pretty One. No, not evereverever…

Reigning in the agitated energy of his magic was easy for his agitated mind; his magic knew what he wanted even better than _he_ could consciously direct it. He lifted the limp body of the serpent off his knees and to his face. Reverently kissing the top of the pierced head Harry gave a sigh and closed his eyes, and then placed the head in his mouth. Sobbing once, Harry swallowed, tears running from behind tightly clenched eyelids as his friend passed into his body and was broken apart by his magic before it could even reach his stomach.

He would _not_ forget. _Ever_.

Letting out one more broken, anguished scream Harry changed into his basilisk form and raced deeper into the huge, dark forest. He had heard once from Sirius that he'd survived the dementors because of his animagus form, because as an animal your emotions were muted. Harry knew he never would have survived that; after the ritual that brought his minds together he felt the pain just as keenly as a giant snake as he did a human.

Harry let out a screaming, hissing roar that set a murder of crows airborne. He wanted to damn himself; why the bloody hell had he focused on their clothes instead of their faces? He couldn't remember what a bloody one of the bastards looked like!

_Wait_.

He paused, coiled halfway up one of the immense trees; he had scented them and could recognize that. Felt them, too, and he noticed the subtle differences in the three's power…maybe he could recognize their voices…

He would look for them. He would avenge his companion, his Fire Scales…

Harry let loose another roar and managed to snap one of the crows out of the air. He watched a scattering of glossy black feathers drift into the gloom below him; yesyesyes, he would _kill_ them for murdering his friend…

With that resolved, and his mind settling back to a semblance of "normal", Harry allowed himself to become lost within the forest he had somehow apparated to. As was so easy for him now, he lost track of time: Amongst the bases of the giant trees where so little light reached it was oh-so much easier. With these eyes he could see spectacularly in any light; he thrived in the isolation the dark brought.

He may have rested, he may not have. It didn't matter. He never _felt_ tired, so either option was viable. He thought blissfully of nothing; as far as he could concern himself all that existed right now were he and the forest.

That was, at least, until he (almost literally) ran into a giant snake. Giant, as in Harry was about thirty feel long and he felt absolutely miniscule.

"What are you doing on my ground?" the monstrosity of mottled browns demanded in a hiss that was more a growl after Harry had very nearly crashed into it, coming around a tree that would put an American redwood to shame.

Harry drew back and pointedly kept from looking anywhere near the other snake's head. It would be very unfortunate to accidentally kill it and, well, it wasn't as if snakes had eyelids to _close_.

"Simply passing through," Harry answered vaguely, noticing with some amusement that his voice sounded more sinister than something five times his size. The other serpent must have found it surprising, as it suddenly reared back before pausing, and there was quiet for a moment.

"Lord Snake?" the giant sounded _awed_, its voice quiet and holding the same strange reverence Fire Scales first spoke with.

"So I've been called before," Harry murmured. This was strange. Before, he'd assumed he was called "Lord" because he was a basilisk, but then it occurred to him that there was _no magic_ here, and magic was needed for a basilisk to hatch. So he was quite probably the only basilisk to _ever exist_ here. Unless the snakes knew something he didn't? Oh, Harry was so confused…

"Do you need anything, Lord Snake?" it asked, settling its monstrous body between the equally-monstrous trees. He idly wondered if there was something strange in the water here than made everything get so damn huge…

Harry settled himself comfortably within his coils, noticing that the other snake had readily turned its head away from his, although if it was aware of his eyes already or simply taking his cues was unknown.

Harry thought about the question though. Did he need anything? What could this snake offer that could be of any use to him? He didn't want another companion—_nonono, had to avenge Pretty first_—but he felt he shouldn't rebuke the snake either. For some odd reason it seemed unfailingly _loyal_. Hmm…that could be useful, actually, but...

"If you could inform the other snakes of the forest of my presence, I would appreciate it." Harry said slowly, mind already drifting with disinterest when he realized that there was nothing immediately valuable to be gained from this serpent. The only thing he could see now was cultivating its loyalty for a future objective. "They need to know not to meet my eyes."

"Of course, Lord Snake," it answered, a lilt in the voice indicating that it, too, what interested in his eyes but dare not ask. "Anything else?"

Harry tilted his head in thought, but was distracted by a glint of light coming from the base of one of the trees. He moved forward to investigate, quickly rearing back and hissing in anger at the sight of one of those odd knives buried deep into the heavily scarred bark. He swung his tail around and smashed the blade deeper into the trunk, only the very edge of the ring at the end remaining visible.

"Yes," he hissed in response to the monstrous serpent, who had taken to watching him cautiously. "Tell me anything you know about the humans with power." That not-magic they had, it was an unknown; it was dangerous. He needed to know more if he ever intended to protect himself from them. It was bad enough that they used physical weapons…

The great serpent hissed its displeasure. "They roam this forest in groups, battling one another and killing many of the other creatures here. Not recently, though, and not as often here; they more often are in the tree tops like birds." It gave a look of disdain upwards; this snake was very obviously too large and heavy to easily maneuver efficiently that far off the ground. "They also have some odd nest they maintain, in a clearing at the forest's center." It was interesting, but not exactly what he needed to know.

"Do you know what they can do with their power?" It had said they fought; surely, with that kind of energy pulsing within them they wouldn't limit themselves merely to thrown weapons. He needed to be prepared. Being caught off guard once more was not an option.

"I know some," it admitted after a long pause, apparently disappointed that it couldn't help more. "I have seen them manipulate the elements; fire, earth, wind and water. Most times the humans from here use fire. I have also seen them play tricks on one another, with illusions over the forest or even in their minds."

It was more than Harry expected to hear from the snake, but it was still less than he needed. He doubted he would get to know anything more thoroughly, however, short of ripping through one of those hunter's minds personally. Harry gave his thanks for the information—_"Anything you may need, Lord Snake," _was the other's response—and the two serpents parted ways, though it was with some obvious reluctance that the larger let him leave unbothered. Maybe some day he would find out why all of the snakes of this place seemed to gravitate towards him…

So Harry continued through the forest sedately, taking note of the variety of creatures living in the darkness. It reminded him of the Forbidden Forest back at Hogwarts, he mused, watching a giant bug skitter across his path. He hadn't seen any giant spiders—_though he probably wouldn't anyway, as spiders always flee before a basilisk_—but giant centipedes were creepy too, he supposed. The forest was certainly full of dangers: Giant tigers, giant snakes, giant insects…that wasn't even including the various poisonous plants and mushrooms he'd taken note of.

Despite the pleasant nostalgia, however, Harry found himself becoming _bored_. _(And a bored Harry was a dangerous Harry…)_

And almost as soon as he realized that, Harry saw the orange light of sunset. Before him was a large clearing and at its very center stood an enormous tower, height nearly on par with the trees standing by like silent sentinels.

Things were probably about to become interesting again.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** They're not clearly marked within my story, but the more times I read it, this chapter happens to be the end of "Arc One". It kind of has that tone...and a different tone will be picked up in "Arc Two". The next chapter is an Interlude...and it sheds light on some very interesting revelations~

**ALSO, **either starting at the Interlude or the chapter immediately following, this story will be bumped up to an **M Rating** for content. Yeees. *quiet cackle*


	5. Interlude 1: Fifteen Truths

**A/N:** ANGST WARNING!

Interlude 1; Fifteen Truths

1.) Lily Potter knew that before the end of the War, she would be dead; killed by You-Know-Who's hand. She held a great belief in the Prophecy Albus told her and James of, because, though she never told even her husband, after little Harry was conceived she started to…see things. Things that hadn't happened yet.

The Future.

Divination had never been one of her favored subjects in Hogwarts—she hadn't even taken the class—but she was just enough of a bookworm that no one looked at her funny when she read about even that branch of magic. She was a curious, genius muggleborn, after all. But now she knew the truth; with the tiny bundle of cells and immense magic already curling within her womb, she saw her own and James' ends.

She told no one, because she also saw that the only way for Harry to live was for them to die, _her_ specifically. Fighting fate was useless, so she did not think often of her inevitable death; she instead thought and researched ways to ensure her precious—unborn—son would live.

_Any_ way to keep her son alive: It took months of digging and covert inquiries and sliding down the steep road of her once high morals, but with her newborn in her arms she finally found something…_promising_.

When the door to their home was blasted in on Halloween night she was resolute, and wasted no time in calling up the contract she had researched for months, and forged just last week. The once-handsome, red-eyed Dark Lord—captivating in the way any deadly creature on the hunt tended to be—stood before her; Lily still begged for her son's life, knowing already that it was futile.

She never asked to be spared her own life, though the Lord seemed to not want to kill her.

She was buying time, splitting her attention between the sinister voice before her and the even more ominous one in her head, resounding deep to her soul.

At one time, she may have simply sacrificed herself, shedding her magic to cocoon little Harry and have him safe like that. But she had seen the future, seen how her son died later at the Dark Lord's hand—ragged and worn and resigned in the Forbidden Forest—and knew that her first idea of protection would not work twice.

So she bartered with her immortal soul for her son's immunity to that cursed, green spell.

Harry Potter's soul would be touched by the God of Death, but he would _live_.

2.) Petunia Dursley truly hated her nephew, from the very day he was left on her doorstep. If she hadn't been so sure those Freaks were watching at that moment she would have happily left the little abomination there, hoping someone stole the unnatural thing.

Her hatred only grew stronger—a feat she thought impossible—as the child aged. He was…unnatural. Too quiet; he barely ever cried, and for the first few months in her home he would hardly move. By turns his stare was either too intent or too unfocused; it was often as if the child was looking into her soul, or _beyond_, and sometimes—_sometimes_—she swore the bright emerald eyes would flash molten bronze.

But more than anything the little freak would do—or _not_ do, as the case just as often was—there was something about him, something she couldn't put her finger on, that bothered her more. A vague sense of dread.

Lingering death.

She knew one day _he_ would probably cause the death of her and her family.

Petunia still couldn't bring herself to be nice to the freak, even if it could prevent such a tragedy.

3.) Harry knew he was different, even before his first bout of accidental magic. For as long as he could remember there had been a hurt in his chest, familiar and constant but somehow…intangible. Almost imagined, but still enough to wake him at night, in the dark of his cupboard.

He would rub his chest, and try not to think about it, because something told him it was _wrong_ to feel like there was a hold in his heart when he was obviously _fine_.

4.) Harry didn't vocalize his first word of English until he was nearly six years old, because ever time he'd tried at home Uncle Vernon would smack him across the mouth.

All of the teachers at school thought him retarded, his speech almost incomprehensible from his unpracticed tongue. The other children pointed and laughed, and Dudley didn't have to chase away potential friends of Harry's that first year.

5.) Harry _did_ make his first friend when he was six, though he didn't remember until he was twelve and faced with the revelation of his Parseltongue abilities.

His first friend was a brown garden snake that lived under one of Aunt Petunia's hydrangea bushes. He spoke with it often; every day for nearly two months until Dudley noticed, and then he lost his friend.

Dudley told Uncle Vernon.

Harry woke in his cupboard, his head sore; when he sat up, something tumbled from his chest to his lap. It was the snake he'd been speaking to, his first and only friend. Its body was bent and misshapen; obviously, Vernon had smashed it to death.

He screamed until Vernon opened his cupboard and slammed his head into the wall.

_Remembering that caused nightmares for the rest of his second year at Hogwarts._

6.) Only one teacher ever asked about Harry's home life; Harry only ever told that one teacher the truth about his family. _Only one; only once._ His first grade homeroom teacher was a nice man…kind…attentive; he gave Harry the attention he got from no one else. Of course he was glad to stay with the man at recess instead of running from Dudley and his gang, and his teacher was glad to have him.

Much too glad.

Some of the other teachers eventually noticed his continued absences and grew suspicious, but by then he'd already been staying extra time with his teacher for months. They found Harry in an old—unused—art classroom sitting on his teacher's lap, the man's hand down his pants.

The Dursleys assured the school in the following months that they had gotten Harry the appropriate therapy for his ordeal.

_They lied_.

7.) Harry killed someone for the first time when he was eight, though he would never remember. It was the first time he encountered anyone from the Wizarding World, which was _why_.

Andrea Malcolm, a half-blood familiar with the muggle world, spotted him—his _scar_—in a grocery store and wanted to introduce herself. Seeing that he was alone—Petunia left him with the cart while she calmed a screaming Dudley with an obscene amount of baby talk and candy—but still feeling she should be discreet, she grabbed his shoulder and steered him out an emergency exit.

Now, after the…incidents…with his homeroom teacher the year previous the other teachers took it upon themselves to teach Harry to protect himself. The first thing they hammered into his head was that he should _never_ let a stranger touch him. In their shame for the actions of one of their own, they never made clear "good touch" and "bad touch". All they said was if he let a stranger touch him, bad things would happen again.

Driven by fear of pain, his magic lashed out at Andrea Malcolm, tearing her apart.

The overworked Ministry Obliviators did not recognize him as Harry Potter when they arrived, passing him off as an exceptionally powerful muggleborn. They _couldn't_ recognize the witch Andrea Malcolm, so thoroughly had his magic destroyed her.

They obliviated him and sent him off; it wouldn't do to have such a powerful muggleborn fear their own power when their Hogwarts letter arrived…

8.) By the time Hagrid arrived with his Hogwarts letter—his ticket out of his miserable home—Harry had been lying convincingly for years. His life was a lie; _he_ was a lie. Harry watched how the other—_normal_—children acted and mimicked them, if only to keep people from staring at him so much.

He'd finally managed to keep himself from flinching when someone got too close.

But when Hagrid told him the fateful story of that Halloween night…how Harry was a _hero_…he resigned himself to the unwanted attention.

At least he was getting away from the Dursley family, even if now he could _never_ stop lying…

9.) Hermione Granger was called the brightest witch of her generation, and she _earned _that title. She was smart enough to know, even at eleven, that there was something wrong with Harry Potter.

She thought she might love him anyway. Not because he was the "boy-who-lived", but because he became her first real friend.

In a way, he was terrifying—though she would never tell him, and avoided thinking about it too much—because he was even younger than her, and she knew he had eventually blackmailed and threatened the others to stop picking on her. He did it in secret, of course, but she knew.

She may have been the smartest, but _he_ was the most cunning. And he was her best friend.

Hermione only wished she could stop thinking that he would sacrifice himself if only to protect her…

10.) Albus Dumbledore would never forgive himself for leaving young Harry with the Dursley family, even as he knew the boy had to return there every summer.

Young Harry would smile and laugh with his friends at the Gryffindor table, do things ordinary and extraordinary and bounce back with nary a complaint. He was a good boy.

Albus Dumbledore hated himself, because he didn't realize anything could be wrong with the spirited boy for _so long_…And how did he find out? The first time Fawkes the Phoenix laid eyes on the Chosen One, he cried.

And Albus Dumbledore hated that he caused young Harry to be wounded in such a way that not even phoenix tears could help.

11.) Against all the odds, Harry made friends with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, and the more he knew them the more he…_cherished_ them, faults and all.

He was terribly, selfishly possessive of them, but over time he found he didn't have to cling so desperately…

The more time he spent with them the less the phantom pain in his chest would hurt, and the less he had to _lie_ to seem normal. The time he spent with his friends was the happiest he had ever been.

12.) After being healed by Fawkes in the Chamber of Secrets Harry got the most disquieting sensation of eyes watching him at the oddest of hours.

That summer, he found out why. Fawkes followed him to Privet Drive, and every time Harry stepped outside he was met by a mournful, melancholy song.

"That bad, huh?" he said once, and the ancient, black eyes of the phoenix let fall crystalline tears. Harry sighed, and didn't ask again.

He wondered if phoenixes could see the future, or if Fawkes was crying for what he saw now.

13.) Harry didn't think he would have survived third year—the Dementors—if he hadn't had such a strong bond with Ron and Hermione.

That being said, it was a good thing he never had to face more than two Dementors at a time after his fourth year. That bond suffered with Ron's abandonment and scorn, and Hermione's distant peacemaking after his name came from the Goblet of Fire. He said he forgave them, but he would never be as close to them again…

He still might've…_liked_ them, though.

14.) Before the boy's fifth year and Occlumency lessons disguised as "Remedial Potions lessons", Severus Snape would have called Harry Potter a clone of James Potter. But with every session he saw more deeply into the boy's mind, saw his most intimate and private memories, and could no longer be blinded by the hate he felt for the boy's father.

So he watched more carefully, and saw how the fifteen year old would flinch at an unexpected touch, or stiffen up from a surprisingly gentle hug from the Granger girl (but she _was_ a perceptive little chit, and a smart one at that). How the boy was always watching, never comfortable in groups but never open enough for that awkwardness to be obviously displayed.

He saw that the gleam in those emerald-green eyes—Lily's eyes; oh Merlin, _Lily_—was not so much from the gleeful vindictiveness he'd seen in James Potter. Rather, it was an ever changing mix of sharp cunning, watchful wariness and worrisomely fierce resolve.

The two of them came to an accord; a silent vow never to speak of what they saw in the other's memories. He couldn't bring himself to be all that angry when…Harry…saw into his pensieve, because all the boy said was a sorry _"My dad was a right bastard, wasn't he?"_

It was because of that understanding that he told no one—not even Albus—that Harry's eyes changed again after the Black died; cunning and resolve and _cruelty_.

And Severus didn't tell when he felt the taint of dark magic growing more powerful, because he had seen into Harry's head, and knew even better than the boy did just the lengths he would go to protect his friends.

_(And if the worst did occur, at least Harry would make a kinder Lord than Voldemort.)_

15.) Harry Potter knew exactly what he was doing, the moment he started casting dark magic. He knew that it took a certain type of person to even be able to cast some of those spells.

It really said something about one's mental state to be able to cast the Unforgivables at all, let alone at his age: You have to _want_ to control, _want_ to torture, _want_ to kill—with every iota of your being…

He didn't care. He knew what he was now. A sacrifice; deigned so by Magic itself. He had to give up himself to save the world, because he was the only one that could, and Voldemort would never stop on his own…he had to be killed.

The least he could do was keep his friends safe; being close to him only painted a giant target on their backs.

He could only hope they forgave him in the afterlife, where maybe he could finally stop lying.

_No one would die for him again._

_/-/-/-/-/_

**A/N:** Initially, I wanted to call this "And this is why people shouldn't know the future" or "In which we find out this story was really a HP AU from the start!". Did any of you expect this? XP

Interludes shall serve as my breaks between Arcs. Not all the interludes will be in this style, but I felt this would be best... The next chapter starts Arc 2, and will be the chapter that kicks this story's rating up to **M**.

As always, thanks for the reviews; Send me more! Tell me what I'm doing right, and what can be improoved upon! And if you think you can guess what's going to happen next, feel free to mention that too~


	6. Chapter 4: A Broken Mind

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long to post. On the bright side, I now have a laptop, which means although my access to the internet is limited I can type up that chapters I've already written whenever I want~ So. This is the start of Arc Two; you'll probably notice a dramatic change in tone for the next few chapters. This is also the chapter that solidly kicks the story into the **M Rating**. Ssso...you should probably keep that in mind.

Chapter 4; A Broken Mind

Sometimes Harry wished he had let himself be sorted into Slytherin instead of fighting the Hat for Gryffindor. It probably would have weeded out his curiosity for potentially dangerous situations, instead of encouraging it like the House of Lions had. Sadly, not even eight months of what he now realized probably constituted as torture could undo five blind years of "Gryffindor thinking"—even if it _had_ been tempered—and Harry found himself about to go headfirst into a situation that had a 98 percent chance of ending badly.

As it was, Harry was poised in the tree line bordering the obviously manmade clearing. The tower stood but a couple hundred feet before him, peaking higher than some of the giant trees. The snake had been right; it was well maintained and he couldn't scent even the slightest bit of fresh human activity.

Heaving a sigh Harry tugged at his magic and returned to his base form for the first time since he integrated his dead friend, who knows how many days ago. Absently pulling his blindfold back over his eyes he noticed the entire side of his face was tender, the scratches barely healed.

Bone-weary fatigue struck a moment later, with a deep, aching pain in his chest. His fingers found the small hole in his robe of their own accord, and the open, sluggishly bleeding wound below: It would have killed him, having struck between the ribs, just over where his heart beat the strongest. Harry realized he'd probably lost far too much blood to be considered healthy and it was why he was so _tired_.

Shaking his head Harry slowly broke through the undergrowth, wincing at the discomfort—the pains—of moving in this form again. His wounds burned, his stomach felt odd and hot and far too full from some bird he'd eaten earlier and he felt so _weak_. So annoying…

The noises of the forest seemed to mute themselves as he drew closer to the base of the tower. The only thing that kept him moving towards the structure was his magic's reassurances that there was _no one_ in there. He was more than willing to shelter within its walls but that didn't mean he wanted to see a person yet. Especially if it triggered another "freak out" on his part.

When he arrived at the base of the tower and was met with a large, _locked_ door he scoffed. _'Really?'_ Held secure with a sturdy chain—Harry scowled and made a sharp cutting motion with his hand—it never stood a chance. He blew a raspberry at the broken chain and drifted through the open door, into the darkened halls.

The people who built this place were sneaky, Harry would give them that. He doubted that he would have managed to find his way off the ground floor without his magic; maybe not even with his magic before he took Voldemort's as well, either. There were walls that had sliding panels, hiding narrow staircases seamlessly, and once he had come upon a strong illusion—hiding a large door—that felt of the strange power. Harry was becoming more and more curious about these people…he wanted to know _all_ about them.

_(And when he came upon the ones who had killed Pretty, he would take great joy in discovering exactly how that power worked…in the most horrible way possible…)_

Harry stopped short, a demented giggle slipping passed pale lips as he looked into another room, deciding that he would stay _here_. This room had a _couch_! When was the last time he had rested on something that could pass as proper bedding? Gods, he couldn't even remember. He pulled up his sleeves so that he could properly touch the material; the faded blue cover was a little frayed, but _Gods_ it was _soft_. It smelled of old human scent, musty, like the rest of the tower, and a little of old blood, but Harry grinned toothily as he sat.

He groaned as he curled up onto the low couch, burying his face into the corner of the seat cushion…this had to be heaven. Yes, he was so covered in dirt that not an inch of his skin was visible, he smelled heavily of his own blood—was still bleeding—and was too thin to rightfully be outside a hospital _(to rightfully be moving at all)_, but this was as close to heaven as he could ever ask for. With heavily lidded, hidden eyes, Harry decided he might just have to stay lying here a few days…

Curled loosely on the couch, Harry slowed his breathing to resemble that of deep sleep, setting his mind loose to wander, dropping into something unlike meditation that he'd only started to do to escape the crippling hopelessness of the dark. It was almost better than sleep, because not even the nightmares could reach him there…and he didn't trust this place enough to meditate, where he might accidentally fall asleep… _(Not without someone there to watch for him)_.

So instead he stretched his magic out far, to be aware of any changes while he was…gone. It would give him a warning, at least, if he were to receive any company—

Harry blearily shifted as his magic drew his mind back to true awareness, feeling the (somewhat expected) presences of humans containing the power brushing against the feelers spread throughout the tower. He tilted his head, cheek brushing the material and he realized he was still lying down, having remained completely still in his almost-trance. _Two._ There were two of them, a couple floors below him. He could feel them. Their power was stronger than any of the three that killed his Pretty.

Uncurling slowly Harry slid off the couch, absently noting that quite a bit of his blood had seeped into it _(a great stain of drying blood, probably too deep in to even attempt to clean out)_. He quietly walked to the corner of the room and wedged his back against it, fixing his blindfold and pulling his magic in tight. And he waited.

Two people drifted into the room, silent as shadows. They were dressed in dark, tight fitting clothes that left their upper arms exposed, wore white vests and guards on their forearms. This time Harry deliberately looked beyond the odd clothes and to the faces; he felt his nails sink deep into his palms when he saw white masks.

But no—_he unclenched his hands, feeling the pull of his skin and the warmth of his blood as the sharp nails retracted_—those weren't Death Eaters, those weren't skull masks. Besides, he hadn't had fear of the Death Eaters since they had started to cower away from him, after he'd killed Wormtail…_(or, sometime around there…)_

His vision narrowed down to their hands—they'd stopped just inside the room, he noticed distantly—and felt a shiver crawl down his spine. They were holding those, those _dagger_ things—_Pretty was strung onto the blade, dark metal looking oddly beautiful, stained red against orange scales __**nonono**_—and he just _barely_ caught hold of his magic before it smacked the two mask-wearers away.

Harry slumped deeper into the corner and kept his mouth firmly shut, restraining the instinctive reflex to scent the hunters: Above all else he had to keep his mouth _closed_, so that they couldn't see his teeth or tongue. He couldn't see their faces, but they were tense, cautious. Harry had already learned the hard way how jumpy these people were and had no desire to be stabbed again for being a "snake demon".

_(He didn't even feel like running back to the forest anymore, like initiative to do anything was gone from his mind.)_

Harry almost startled when one of them finally spoke. The mask distorted their voice oddly, and it took a few extra moments for him to extract the meaning from the noises, from the words. "Identify yourself; what business do you have here?" Ahh, damnit. Of course, it hadn't even occurred to him that someone would find him, expect him to explain himself. Harry didn't know enough about these people to even contemplate lying up an excuse.

Oh, what the hell. "Harry," he told them sullenly, voice still hoarse and broken from his previous screaming. "Resting." One hand swayed in the direction of the room's only piece of furniture before falling back at his side. He couldn't see their eyes through the dark holes, but he could almost feel them drift from him to the bloodstained couch and back again. Those eyes were probably narrowed in suspicion.

"How did you get here?" Oh yes, there was the suspicion, ruining the carefully neutral tone they had begun talking with. Harry realized belatedly that it was probably a bad idea to have broken the chain like he had; it had been pretty sturdy and he had broken it into _pieces_. Oops.

So he did the only thing that came immediately to mind. Harry shrugged his shoulders, ignoring the wince it caused as the movement pulled his wound, and shook his head helplessly, feeling very much like the dirty, broken child he appeared to be.

With no warning he fell limply to the floor, propped up only because he was still huddled into the corner, head murky and spinning. _Gods_, had the blood loss been more severe that he'd though? _(But he remembered well enough from the year's past what his limits were, how much pain he could take, how much blood he could do without…)_ But…no! He recognized the slight tingle of that _power_ too late and it was messing with his head and dragging him under and his magic was swirling and _didn't know how to fight it_ and—

Dark. It was so dark, but Harry liked this dark. It was peaceful and quiet. Warm.

He opened his eyes, finding them unobstructed by the blindfold, but it didn't worry him. His clothes had been replaced by a wispy black robe that actually fit him properly, and it was _clean_. _He_ was clean.

Inhaling deeply—no pain, there was _no pain_!—got him a lungful of almost-humid air and the heavy scent of soil and decaying leaves. And he smiled, because he could also smell snakes, and the snakes would always protect him.

Fire Scales, his pretty one, was at his feet. Harry crouched on the soft ground that he couldn't see and held out a hand, petting smooth scales with pale, sharp nailed fingers.

"I miss you," he admitted quietly, because pretty was dead, but that was okay because they were still _here_.

"You still have me, Lord Harry," it said, looking into his eyes; Harry could have sworn it was smiling. "Just call me and I will be there."

Harry found himself nodding, he understood even if he really _didn't_, and Pretty sunk into the ground that he still couldn't see. But it was okay, because he was safe and Pretty was still here.

He sat up and looked around again; it was still very dark, but he could actually see something now. All around floated a mist—a miasma—almost the same color of his eyes, and though it looked decidedly toxic it only reassured Harry in its existence. It felt like a shield.

A great shadow was moving through the mists and he met his own yellow eyes at a distance. He nodded to himself—was mirrored—yes, good. _Here_ was safe.

Something felt wrong further away, though, and it needed to be taken care of. He trailed his hand along ridged emerald and Avada green scales as he passed; back here would stay guarded but he still needed to fix something.

He shivered as he walked; it was getting cold as the miasma thinned. Harry felt very small out here, and it hurt. A wound opened on his forehead _(could it be his scar?)_ and hot blood seared down his face. The ground was cold now, too, even if it was still soft; something sticky squished up between his toes with every step.

The dark was oppressive now, and slowly the scent of decaying leaves was replaced simply with decay. Rot. The scent of snakes was only of their discarded skin, as if even they feared to be here.

More wounds were opening on his skin, the blood searing scars over increasingly raw flesh. His robe was in tatters and the freezing, humid air clung to him and stole his breath away. It was so dark—he was blind—and there were shallow furrows spread randomly over the ground. A shock of agony ripped through every time he tripped over one.

Harry hurt on the inside, too, but he couldn't place that pain. All he knew was that he was getting closer, the problem was at the surface and he just needed to _keep going_. Don't stop, don't stop, don'tstopdon'tstop…

The furrows in the ground were getting deeper; he choked on a scream when he stepped into one that was ankle deep, full of the cold, sticky liquid that gushed out of the ground with his every step. He was shaking as he continued on: Just a little bit farther, just a little bit…

He could see again. Harry wished he was still blind; the sight hurt him that much more. The sky overhead—if it could be called the sky—was black, cut through by jagged strikes of Avada Kedavra green. Frozen lightning. The ground was scarred deep, craters glowing of the same color, filling slowly with liquid crimson ooze.

Long lines, as if a giant beast had torn the earth with its claws, stretched all across his path. They were deep. He couldn't see the bottom.

_The sight hurt him._

He wiped the blood out of his eyes and cast his gaze around again; the problem was near, very near. He could feel it.

Yellow eyes narrowed and a shiver of revulsion swept over him when he found a large mass of shadows in the distance.

_He didn't want to remember_.

There was the problem; a man standing before the shadows. Harry's lips twisted into a grimace; a meddler.

It was hard to get this far from his center without falling into a deep scar, but Harry made it. The man didn't seem to notice when Harry appeared at his side; he was staring into the shadows, and Harry could feel confusion and a bit of muted horror from him, even if the man didn't show it with his body.

Harry studied the man; broad shouldered, strong, dirty blond hair tied in a high tail, longer than most men wore it. He then looked closer at the man, and knew more: Yamanaka Inoichi, valued in his work with the Torture and Interrogation department of the Hidden Village of Konoha…whatever that meant.

"I do not like people poking around in my head," Harry said blandly from the man's side, voice belying the anger radiating from the broken ground. He felt the man's surprise, but again it didn't show outwardly.

"What is this?" Yamanaka nodded at the expanse of shadows just out of arm's reach. Harry narrowed his eyes at the man—he hadn't yet removed his eyes from the furiously writhing shadows—but turned and looked as well. Some of the yellow miasma seeped out of the ground by his feet and pushed the darkness back a little.

"I forget," He said eventually, as much an answer as a statement. This time the man actually looked at him. And flinched.

Harry wiped another trickle of blood out of his eyes, cast his gaze over the broken, green tinted mess of his mind and then back to the intruder. Yamanaka was roiling with emotions—a lot of confusion, some horror and…was that _fear?_—as he took a step away from Harry. He—thank the Gods—didn't step on one of the scars that webbed the area through like lines on broken glass.

"You _forget_," the man emphasized after a small eternity of silence between them, in which Harry had spent staring him down. _(It was kind of funny, because he was just as short __**in**__ his mind as outside it.)_

"I do not remember," Harry confirmed, voice truly blank as he distantly wondered why he was even answering the intruder. The silence that followed made the _pat pat pat_ of his falling blood seem to echo. "Don't do it," he warned the man as he felt several plans being built and torn down, none of them good for Harry.

The meddler didn't even pause his planning.

"This is your last warning, Yamanaka Inoichi—" surprise, the though process paused momentarily before spinning faster "—you will not get away with this."

Harry directed his magic to reach out, get rid of the man, but he _saw_ and his light green eyes widened minutely before his jaw set and he stomped down _hard_ on one of the shallow scars. Harry shuddered; the tendril of solid yellow reaching from the ground lost cohesion and broke into miasma. It burned the Yamanaka, reddening and blistering tanned skin.

He still didn't stop, though. Harry watched, splayed limply on the ground as his strong hand glowed blue—the power, _chakra_ Inoichi's mind said—and tore a gaping hole in the shadows.

Heavy crimson smoke crawled out of the wound even as the shadows broke apart and scattered, Yamanaka backing away, again careful not to step on his scars; Harry barely cared anymore. He was frozen, staring in terror as the smoke crawled deliberately in his direction. _(Nonono! He didn't __**want**__ to remember that!)_

"No," he choked out, but his magic wasn't answering his call. The smoke was laughing at him; high and cold, deep and terrifying. "Nonono," Harry didn't care if he was crying; it wasn't fair! It was the past; couldn't he just forget it and have his peace?

The smoke flowed over him—through him—and left him colder than any dementor ever could.

_He felt long-fingered hands on him, one on his shoulder and one on his hip; a mouth hovered over his ear, whispering things at him. He couldn't hear what it said, but could feel what it meant as they pulled him closer and intruded into his mind, sifting though it heedless of the damage left in their wake. They…weren't that alike, were they?_

He could feel the eyes of the intruder on him before more of the smoke wrapped over his head.

_Voldemort's presence eclipsed his own, pushed his mind out of control and left him a spectator to his own actions. Possessed again; not the floating bliss of the Imperius, nor the Cruciatus level pain he had experienced in the Ministry Atrium back in fifth year. Rather, a fleeting, stinging ache presided._

_If felt as if he'd lost something important._

_Harry stood with power his body didn't have, had Voldemort's spirit not been fueling him, and found himself entering one of the small torture cells he didn't remember seeing outside of his scar-visions. This cell's special feature was a flat, stone, altar-like table at its center. _

_It was occupied._

_Ginny Weasley was stuck to the tabletop, naked and spread-eagle with a deep gash splitting her belly like a gleaming, grotesque mouth. The deep red seam opened with every futile struggle, every involuntary twitch. Her normally warm brown eyes were glassy and swollen from crying, though they seemed to brighten when she noticed __**who**__ was in the room._

_"Harry!" she exclaimed, voice tight and quivering with pain. "God Harry, you're alive! How did you—" her voice choked off when she met his eyes; Harry saw gleaming red embers reflected there. "H-Harry?" she stuttered, and Voldemort smiled with Harry's mouth but remained silent._

_With no warning his hands were suddenly plunging deep into Ginny's belly, and she was screaming, screaming, __**screaming**__. The hot muscles and viscera clenched around his intruding hands and blood slicked up his fingers as they dug deeperdeeper__**deeper**__. His fingertips scraped something hard, and Ginny groaned and convulsed; there must have been a spell to keep her conscious, because his fingers had scraped her __**spine**__._

_Voldemort was laughing his perversion of a laugh through Harry's mouth as he grabbed fistfuls of intestine and ripped them out in a noisy, bloody mess. Ginny's screech reached its crescendo the same time Harry's throat broke from the high laugh._

He choked, gasped, and screamed before he was dragged under again, the smoke crawling down his throat.

_Confusion, so much confusion. He was curled on his side, on something soft, and could see empty glass phials scattered over the floor. His mouth was thick with the heavy taste of blood._

_Pain, so much pain. Head foggy and pounding, wrists tender and stung. His sides hurt—he couldn't even guess why, he couldn't link pain there with any remembered hurt before—but it was eclipsed by another pain, further down, deeper, but one his foggy mind couldn't (__**refused to**__) place._

_Harry became aware he was shaking._

_His arm moved, just enough for his elbow to brush his side, and he winced at the new spike of pain. He moved his head minutely, just enough to look. Scratches, deep scratches, the kind that pulled the skin off in ribbons. Fingernail scratches. His clothes were gone. He was lying on a bed._

_Harry curled up tighter, though the agonizing pain it shot up his spine made him release a soft cry of pain. He was shaking harder, and there was something hot and slick dripping between his thighs. He couldn't tell if it was blood, or…_

_Voldemort emerged from the deeper shadows of the room, red eyes gleaming with amusement as they watched him. Harry flinched when Voldemort trailed a finger over his forehead; there was no pain, but their connection expanded for a terrible moment. There was amusement, and fascination, and luring in the undertow was something else that he couldn't quite pinpoint…_

_The connection unraveled again when Voldemort moved his hand, trailing spidery fingers over the bleeding scratches crisscrossing Harry's sides. Harry flinched when the hand moved passed his face and he saw the blood already under the long nails; how the snakelike man tasted the blood and continued to watch him with that __**look**__._

_And Harry hurt. He hurt so much._

Harry had gone silent; didn't make a noise as another wave of smoke rushed over him, through him, settling a cold pit in his chest that seared like a knife.

_Dark. Cold. Pitch Black. Freezing. A frozen hell, and Harry was blind._

_Pacing. One, two, three, four, five. Stop. Touch the wall: Too cold, couldn't feel it, only knew that he couldn't go farther that way. Turn. One, two, three, four, five. Stop. Touch the wall: Still couldn't feel it. Turn; too weak, fell. Sprawled; the silence was crawling closer._

_Inhale, scream: The walls screamed back at him, but he screamed louder and the silence ran screaming, too. Scream, scream, scream, but then he coughed up __**warm**__!_

_Lift the shaking hand he couldn't see, touch the hot running down his chin. So hot, so nice; he could __**feel**__ that. Harry smeared it across his face and it __**stayed**__ warm, but there was no more and the rest of him was so __**cold**__._

_He widened unseeing eyes and gasped, then smiled and giggled and laughed and started biting with blunt teeth and the __**hot**__ gushed into his mouth with a lingering, coppery tang. He bit until his arms were shredded and gathering the wonderful warmth in his hands and spread it all over._

_Finally, he was __**warm**__._

Harry scrambled to his feet, tripping over scars but not pausing as he rushed to escape the lingering smoke. It was all out now, there was so much and he _couldn't put it back_, but he fell out of the red; toxic yellow finally answered his call and lashed the smoke back, dispersing it away from him.

The intruder was still there, face mostly impassive, but Harry could read anyone like an open book when they were in _his_ mind. There was fear, but there was also pity.

Harry's hands shook; he couldn't tell if the man had _seen_.

"Do not pity me," Harry snarled, and a tendril of magic flew out of the ground and coiled around the man. "Get the hell out of my mind before I _eviscerate_ you." The magic started to burn him: To his credit the blond didn't make a sound. He simply narrowed his eyes and the tingle of the power—_chakra_—that anchored his mind into Harry's unraveled.

The intruder was gone. Harry shuddered, cast a glance at his scarred, broken mind, filling with malevolent smoke and let himself go—

The pain had shifted dimensions again; his blindfold was back in place and muted the glare of the bright lights in the small room. He was seated in a hard chair, strapped to it. A metal table separated him from a decidedly dazed looking Yamanaka Inoichi. There were others in the room, but Harry paid them no mind.

He slowly lifted his head, feeling dirt incrusted hair drag across his cheeks, seeing a few flakes of dried dirt and blood flake from his face at the movement. Harry stared hard at the blond until he was sure the man could feel his glare, and only then curled his lips into a sneer. _(And he told himself—no!—his lips __**did not**__ fight the gesture, did not __**quiver**_._)_

He wanted to yell at the man, curse him, swear that he would _not _get away with making him remember what he'd so successfully managed to forget, making him acknowledge how fucked up his mind really was. But he couldn't. Harry found the words stuck in his throat and he choked out a sob before he smothered it, shaking.

He felt very tired again, so very tired.

Violently he pulled his magic in, Apparating like it _wasn't_ the first time he'd done it intentionally. He had no destination in mind but was sure he could hold himself together. And if he splinched himself…well…his magic could probably fix him right.

His landing was quiet, as far as Apparation went, and he arrived intact as well. Which was a good thing, because the sun said that it was early in the morning and he'd appeared in what looked like a _school yard_. Building, swings, trees…targets? Hn.

Carefully harnessing his ill begotten skill of _not allowing himself to think_ Harry stood and shuffled over to a tree, levitating himself carefully into its branches after a moment of contemplation. Why he wanted to be up that tree he had no clue, except perhaps that he'd once hidden up trees when he was still young and hiding at Privet Drive. It didn't rival the size of the trees in the dark forest but it was good enough to hide him from view. If he'd weighed as much as he should the thin branch he'd chosen to lie upon probably wouldn't have held, but it didn't matter to him right now.

He ignored the protesting pain in his chest when he lay face down along a branch, arms and legs dangling limply on either side, covered eyes gazing blankly at the ground some twenty feet below. Harry had no way of knowing how far away he had Apparated from wherever those…chakra wielders had taken him. He didn't care. Didn't really ever want to see one of them again, actually. Seen…three…two, six of them and look where it got him; one dead friend and one fucked-up mind. Not good odds.

He sniffed, and refused to acknowledge the tears soaking into his blindfold, instead staring resolutely at one of his arms. The way he was laying bunched the sleeve up uncomfortably at his shoulder; the tips of his fingers were visible. Huh. He'd almost forgotten that he'd dug his nails into his palms; he tracked the rivulet of blood down his index finger with strange interest. The drop hung suspended for an eternity before the building weight of yet more life sent it plummeting unobstructed to the ground.

There was a small, foreboding voice that suggested that none of his wounds were healing. That he wouldn't heal until he wanted to. But he didn't want to…not really…

The puddle of red below the tree got larger and larger; Harry fancied he could hear the drops echo as they splashed down. The shade of red changed with the light: A thin tendril of magic stirred the puddle for a while before his attention wavered and it dispersed into the "feeler" field.

He couldn't escape the chakra-wielders, it seemed. They appeared to be much more prevalent than wizards had been in Harry's…world. Dimension. Whatever. Strong presences—rivaling the ones he'd felt in the Tower—flittered against the edges of his senses only for a second at a time. They moved quickly but those presences were frequent…frantic?

Nearby, in the…school?—yes, it seemed plausible—there were many tiny, weak, presences. Smaller than the three that killed pretty, just barely stronger than the villagers. Learning? Learning to wield the chakra, like he'd learned to wield his magic? There were a few stronger sources; it was easy to assume they were teachers.

There was suddenly a tide of noisy children rushing out of the building—Harry guessed there were about thirty of them—and towards the trees. Meaning, in his general direction. Harry saw no reason to move though, listening instead to the shouts of the children, boasting who could hit the target most accurately.

And Harry was treated to the dubious pleasure of seeing children that looked just shy of Hogwarts age throwing around bladed weapons. If his mind wasn't so disconnected he probably would have laughed. They were _ninja_. Fucking_ ninja_. Gods, he couldn't laugh anyway! He was a wizard; he had no right to laugh at ninja!

Then there was a shriek _directly_ below him. Really, it was a good thing that screams didn't cause him to startle anymore or he could very well have fallen out of the tree…Anyway. Harry snorted in quiet disdain; some girl decided that _his_ tree was a good place to rest and sat before she looked. She sat directly in his blood puddle and—oh, how fun—got dripped on.

This time Harry couldn't keep himself from giggling, and it only turned a little more demented when the pale face looked _up_ and got blood between her eyes for the trouble. Oh, he hadn't thought he'd been that loud…

"Iruka-sensei!" the girl shrieked as she scrambled away from his tree, spreading his life over the ground in a great messy smear. Hmm. It looked more attractive as a simple puddle…

Something must have happened out of his range of sight, because suddenly all the small presences were moving back towards the school and the strongest—the teacher—was moving cautiously towards his tree. Harry shifted the slightest bit so that he could see better, pulling one arm up to better brace himself on the branch.

The man that appeared under him wasn't all that remarkable; dark skin, darker hair—brown, not black—that was tied back and stuck up, and an old scar that stretched horizontally across the bridge of his nose. There was that metal plate tied onto his forehead…

Oh. Weapon in hand. Protect the children, right? Admirable sentiment.

"Hey," It was said like he didn't know what else to say, like he wasn't expecting an answer.

So Harry decided to mess with him.

"You are stepping in my blood," Harry murmured, amusement coloring the grim statement into something almost light. "It is not very polite." Like hell if he really cared; his mouth was on autopilot.

"You shouldn't be bleeding on Academy grounds anyway," the teacher said, edging back a little. "Why don't you come down from there." It could have been a question, but it sounded more like an order. Harry snorted softly and flicked his finger, sending a small rain of blood down at the man.

"Why?" he asked blandly, pulling the remaining arm up and pillowing his head on it. Was nice…he could almost sleep here… "No, wait, I do not care. Nice up here." By the end he was muttering; the teacher probably couldn't hear him anyway.

"You come down or I _make_ you come down." The man seemed to consider him for a moment; Harry thought he might be confused by the situation presented to him. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I just call for ANBU?" Ooh, that was more than a hint of threat, there.

Harry leaned over the branch, actually deigning to meet the man's eyes as he asked "ANBU?"

A flicker of dark clothes, white armor and white animal masks passed though the teacher's mind.

Uh-uh, _hell_ no. Mask wearers were sneaky; they let that Yamanaka man in his head. Harry didn't want to see them again.

"Fine," Harry sighed, though it almost turned into a pained moan when he pushed himself upright. Another glance down confirmed an unobstructed way, so he shifted his legs to one side and dropped to the ground. Surprisingly enough he landed steadily, knees bent to absorb the impact: Though he was weak he didn't fall, even if the landing jarred his chest wound terribly.

When it became apparent the teacher wouldn't say anything Harry took matters into his own hands. He stepped back and leaned against the tree, tilting his head to one side. "I am down. Now what?"

The other's eyes seemed drawn to his chest; Harry knew why. In the daylight the bloodstain had to look quite impressive. It was also pretty obvious, now that Harry was at ground level, that he was but a _child_ in the man's eyes.

And then the teacher took a step forward. And Harry flinched. He felt the first inkling of foreboding when those eyes narrowed—why the hell had he flinched? For fuck's sake, it's not…he stopped thinking and shuddered minutely. _Do. Not. Think._

"You can see," he accused suspiciously. Harry tilted his head and frowned; oh, that was right, a blindfold usually meant someone _shouldn't_ be able to see.

"Quite well, actually," Harry agreed, frown turning into a small smirk. (A small part of him thought wistfully how many problems could be solved by just _removing_ that little piece of cloth.) He coughed a little at the strain on his voice, not bothering to wipe away the speckling of blood the action left on his lips.

The weapon was suddenly gone from the teacher's hand; Harry could see him arguing to himself even without reading his mind. Then a tanned, calloused hand was held out to him. Harry looked at it, bewildered; what the hell..?

"Come on." Harry couldn't read his voice so he deliberately looked into his mind. _"Just a kid—don't recognize him, probably not from Konoha, then—not very likely he could be shinobi—no hitai-ate—civilian shouldn't have those wounds—__**starved**__—damn, why did he flinch—if not shinobi, how can he see? Why are his eyes covered?—Hospital __**now**__, coughing up blood; internal bleeding, too?—How long was he there for so much blood to fall under the tree?"_ Harry blinked away the whirling thoughts; damn, did that man think fast.

He looked at the hand again…he really didn't want to touch him—didn't want the man to be anywhere _near_ him, actually. But his thoughts showed concern, even with a healthy amount of suspicion, and as far as Harry knew only a master of Occlumency could lie outright in their thoughts. So Harry sighed and took a few steps forward; when he was close enough he placed the extra inches of his ragged sleeve into the offered hand. To his credit the teacher simply closed his hand around the dirty material, seemingly taking no offense that it wasn't Harry's hand.

Harry shook his head; freaking _ninja_.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** I do wonder if I'll get flamed for this chapter. Hmm. Ah well; it's been planned from the start, really, if that makes it any better for you. I should also probably point out that this story is not in the angst category, so we _will_ move beyond this. But everything gets worse before it gets better...and all that rot :3

Tell me what you guys think! I've been re-reading and thinking about this story so long that I may have missed something obvious; tell me! Do you think the tone's right? (Are a few of Harry's reactions in previous chapters making a bit more sense to you now?) As always, I await your reviews eagerly~


	7. Chapter 5: Scars on Mind, Mind on Scars

**A/N:** Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? I bet you all were thinking I had abandoned this thing! Well, not a chance~! It's just that this chapter was originally written a year+ ago, and the plot's developed some since then... That means, the entire first half of this chapter was just re-written, and it took a bit longer than planned (that, and laptop death, but that's a rant for my profile!). I'll just let you get on to reading now :3 Also, please note that the second genre in this story has been changed to **Drama**.

Chapter 5; Scars on Mind, Mind on Scars

Harry knew, barely two steps towards the Academy—the children's little presences long since gone, far into the building—that it was going to take some work on his part if he intended to hide anything from these people. These _shinobi_. _(So said the teacher's—Iruka's— pathetically open mind…)_. Harry was used to people watching him, yes, but not so piercingly; back in the Wizarding World people were looking for what they expected from "Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived; the Chosen One". Here…although the teacher was only watching from the corner of his eye as they entered a classroom…it made Harry terribly aware of all the things _wrong_ with the image he presented.

The blindfold he wore, for example. Harry hadn't even _considered_ acting as though he couldn't see, or that his sight was hindered at all by it. Intellectually he knew that if he saw someone wearing a blindfold he would assume they couldn't see…but for some reason he couldn't apply that logic to himself. It was the same way he knew that by now, anyone else with such a wound on their chest would have at least staunched the bleeding: The injury was obviously days old by now.

Other, less obvious, things occurred to him as well. Like the way he walked: Harry hadn't even realized it at first, but he wasn't simply _ignoring_ the pain caused by moving on almost-dead muscles. At some point his magic had gone and actively _blocked_ him from acknowledging it. His body still knew the pain though, _crippling_ pain by the reciprocal strain on his magic. Every movement he made reflected that; his steps were stiff and light to prevent unnecessary stress. He limped, sometimes staggering when something unused to movement stretched too far.

And he hadn't moved on his own for so long that none of that seemed even slightly strange.

Harry _knew_ it all looked suspicious, but by this point he couldn't help it. If his magic felt that the pain was crippling enough for him to be incapable of function _(when his pain threshold was already well above what was considered normal…)_ then Harry wouldn't bother trying to dissolve the block from his nerves. So he would have to be suspicious; his face would reflect none of the terrible pain his body screamed of.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Harry nearly jerked out of the chair he'd barely noticed the teacher directing him onto. The sudden movement caused a fresh stream of blood to pour from the wound on his chest: Alarmed, Harry pressed a hand to it out of reflex more than anything, and found his sleeve soaked almost immediately.

The shinobi was talking at him—words fast, too fast for Harry's new knowledge of his language to follow—but Harry wasn't listening. Something wasn't right, he realized suddenly. He had bled so much—_too much_—but he wasn't even feeling the dizziness he should be suffering from the loss. But then came an emerging realization, something creeping out of the darkness—

"_Open your mouth, Harry," Voldemort hissed, long fingers grasping his chin in a bruising grip. Harry didn't move, his body heavy and so weak he couldn't muster the energy to open his eyes, let alone his mouth. His arms **ached** like there was lead under his skin. "Open, I said!" The fingers squeezed, pressing hard into the pressure points behind his jaw and sending spikes of agonizing pain into his skull._

"_My Lord," A familiar voice with strange inflection; shouldn't that voice be sharp, sneering? The slight movement of air over his face—they were close, had **moved** close—brought the scent of pungent herbs and caustic viscera. Harry twitched, trying to open his eyes to the familiar presence. "Allow me."_

"_Severus," Voldemort spat, drawing out the Potion Master's name in a frustrated hiss. The fingers wrapped around Harry's jaw tightened, drawing a keening whine out of his throat. "You have the potions." It wasn't a question._

"_Yes, my Lord. I have all that you asked of me." The soft sound of delicate vials tapping together, being drawn from the deep recesses of a robe. "I tested the potency. They need be administered only once."_

"_You had best hope they work Severus…" The Dark Lord trailed off ominously. The viselike grip loosened some to tilt his head back, and Harry realized with murky, dawning horror that for some reason Voldemort was holding him very close, though that put them **both** on the cold floor of his cell. "Do it **now**, Severus!"_

_Though incapable of seeing, Harry knew immediately by the tingle of **magic** that Snape had placed his wand into the corner of his mouth. It was as though a wedge were there instead, forcing his locked jaws apart; a numbness spread down his throat, somehow preventing him from gagging up the bitter/sour/**foul** concoction poured into his mouth. When he started to cough cold fingers sealed his lips shut, and Harry realized he now had the energy—the **strength**—to struggle. And he did._

"_That was fast…" Voldemort nearly **purred** his approval and that only made Harry twist more desperately. He was still so weak, and the Dark Lord's frail body held an inhuman strength; Harry's ribs nearly caved when the arms tightened around him._

"…_He is still bleeding, my Lord." Harry snapped his eyes open, sending a betrayed glare at his Potion's Professor. Black eyes gazed back at him dispassionately, dead and flat in the low lighting of his small cell._

"_Yes, he is." Voldemort mused, seemingly unbothered by his somewhat demeaning position before his servant as he breathed his words over Harry's ear. "His blood takes an unusually long time to clot. As long as your potions work, that will no longer be a problem…will it Severus?" He drew the name out again, darkly; it was no question, but a threat._

"_As long as his body still has magic he cannot die by exsanguination," Snape affirmed slowly. "If he does not maintain proper nutrition, however, his body will wither if it is constantly forced to replace so much blood…" He stopped talking when Voldemort hissed out a chuckle; Harry closed his eyes again and shuddered._

"_There is more to be done yet, Severus." The Dark Lord released him and Harry slumped back to the cold floor, feeling warmth trickle from his arms once more. "So much more…"_

_The Potion's Master lingered within the cell for a moment as Voldemort passed, taking the light with him. "My Lord," It would have been a gasp from anyone else—from Snape it was merely a whisper—and it didn't sound as if he were talking to Voldemort._

_The door slammed shut, leaving Harry to the abyssal blackness once more.—_

The hand he held over his wound clenched, and suddenly Harry was repulsed by the feel of blood welling through his fingers. His blood…his _blood_…He didn't need to bleed anymore—shouldn't!—and the flow of it stopped to the barest trickle though the hole was still there. When he removed the sleeve covered hand from his chest—_(was that really his blood?)_—he realized it was shaking, that he was dizzy. The _smell_ of his blood was making him _sick_.

Harry jumped, having forgotten that he wasn't alone and seeing the shinobi-teacher hovering just out of arm's reach, appearing unsettled and somewhat distressed. He barely repressed the reflex to either bare his fangs or run, but the effort left him shaking; Iruka's expression softened into concern, though he seemed to realize that he shouldn't come any closer.

"I won't touch you again," the man stated, trying to maintain eye-contact despite Harry's blindfold. He kept his arms low, but held his hands open and out wide as if to say 'see my hands? Nothing there, nothing to hurt you.' "Why don't you tell me your name?"

Harry stared at the man blankly, long enough that the other became uncomfortable, shifting in place though he kept his hands held unthreateningly. "Harry," he said eventually, voice hoarse; his parsel-accent didn't seem quite so obvious, somehow. "My name is Harry."

"Okay…_Harry_—" the shinobi tried and failed to pronounce his name correctly. "—can you tell me what you were doing up that tree?" It wasn't really a question—in that it felt like to answer was mandatory—but it was said almost gently, and nothing was triggered within him to _resist_ telling the truth…

"It was safer up there than where I was last." Harry chose not to elaborate further than that. He wanted to avoid thinking about that Yamanaka man as much as he could, for even a passing thought of the mental intrusion left him feeling so _violated_. _(So painfully infuriated…)_

"And where were you?" Harry didn't answer, choosing instead to stare impassively at the man's unremarkable eyes, sharpening his focus until he could see the thoughts of the other. _'It's been more than five minutes since I sent the class away; __**where**__ is my backup? One of the other teachers should have been here by now to check on the situation…'_ "…Okay. Will you let me take you to the hospital? It looks like you need some help." Most prominently on his mind was the quantity of blood in Harry's clothes, but he was also dwelling on how _thin_ the shoulder he'd touched had been.

A hospital…yes, that sounded like a rather good idea. He certainly wasn't eager to have a healer prodding at him but there was no doubt that under ones supervision he would regain his health far more quickly than he would alone. They could provide him with the…nutrients his body was surely starved of by now.

Harry shuddered minutely and nodded an agreement to the shinobi, going so far as to offer his non-bloodstained sleeve for the man to lead him by. Yes, he needed a healer no matter how much he didn't _want_ one.

Iruka looked oddly relieved as he took the offered material and motioned for them to be on their way. Harry read that he was glad for them to be gone before the block ended and another class of students moved into the room. He wondered why, because it didn't seem like the man felt threatened by him at all…

"The hospital is a bit of a distance away, so just let me know if you need a break, or help." He glanced back concernedly—frequently—but they kept on and were soon off Academy grounds, taking back-roads to avoid attention from Harry's bloodstained apparel. The few people that did see them—ones that had even smaller presences that the Academy children—were always quick to look away, pointedly minding their own business.

Harry paid just enough attention to make sure he didn't fall over something—though Iruka was a good guide, leading him along a clear path—while the majority of his focus was once more on his magic. What he _felt_. The chakra that he could feel so strongly—the chakra that had to be ninja, the _shinobi_—as the frantic presences were still moving around him. Now that he was moving within their circuit Harry could tell they were moving _above_ street level, and so fast… It was daunting to think that they were on foot.

After a while he began to recognize that a few of them—four or five—were actually the _same_, and that two of those were _familiar_. His steps faltered when he realized that they were the two ANBU that found him in the Tower within the Dark Forest: They were the ones that put him to sleep, and took him to the Yamanaka.

He must not have Apparated very far. Damn it all. _He_ was probably the reason they were patrolling so frantically; they were looking for _him_. And they were probably wondering how he pulled his little disappearing act.

Harry felt sick.

As one of them passed impossibly close, nearly right overhead—it was one of the men from the Tower—Harry tensed, steps faltering, and then froze completely when the chakra presence seemed to fluctuate and flare. Iruka looked up with furrowed brows, and then back at Harry, _(could he feel it too; did the shinobi have resonance for chakra like wizards had for magic?)_ who could only construct an expression of disbelief as he felt the two nearest recognizable presences rush his way.

"Do you need to take a break?" The teacher had already dismissed what was obviously a beacon for the searching ANBU, but Harry was ignoring him, eyes roving over the rooftops in wary anticipation of their inevitable appearance. "Harry?"

There they were, like vultures perched 'round a corpse. Harry tugged his sleeve out of Iruka's hand; a sharp, quick movement to ensure he couldn't hold on. He glanced between the three masks quickly—one birdlike, one somewhat vulpine, and the last completely indecipherable to him—and had to quickly cover his mouth so as not to display the fang-baring snarl that appeared. Two of the three were the ones who gave him over to Yamanaka.

"What's wrong?" Iruka queried, before noticing the ANBU encircling them and turning immediately alarmed. In a distant sort of way Harry realized that the teacher was _weak_; comparing his chakra to the ANBU was like comparing the teacher to the children he taught. There was simply no contest.

"Move away from him, Umino-san," said one of the masks, resonation and speed of the speech nearly making it beyond Harry's comprehension. Barely thinking, he was already backing away; he stopped only when his back touched a wall, and then he slid down, making himself as small as possible. Harry wouldn't let any of them behind him; he needed to _watch_ them. _(And Pretty wasn't here to watch his back for him…)_

Overlapping voices, raised slightly _(arguing?)_, speaking far too fast for Harry to decipher. Hiding his face behind a curtain of tangled, dirty hair Harry snarled. Just because the thought of them putting him to sleep and taking him to Yamanaka again scared him, didn't mean he couldn't be _angry_!

"I don't understand; he is not shinobi!" Iruka turned back towards him, though it was obvious he was talking to the ANBU: The only reason Harry could comprehend him was from reading the words from his mind. "I was just taking him to the hospital!"

The ANBU that responded spoke slowly, something near annoyance in their voice. "This does not concern you, Umino-san. You will accompany Jackal back to the Academy, _now_." The authority in the tone made Harry's eyes narrow, trying to pinpoint _which_ of the vultures spoke. By process of elimination he decided that it was the bird mask that spoke; 'Jackal' was probably the one wearing the vulpine mask, and the last of the three was obviously female and thus not the speaker.

Another moment passed where it looked like Iruka intended to continue resisting, but then he sighed and easily leapt to the rooftops: Harry felt him and one of the Tower presences head back in the direction of the Academy. He felt…_weird_…that a stranger had taken the trouble to try and help him, so let the feeling pass by telling himself the man was just taking the care because Harry looked like a child. Normal people tried to help injured children; if the man had known the truth he wouldn't have bothered.

He watched the remaining two examine him; now that 'Jackal' was gone they weren't surrounding him, and Harry was somehow unsurprised that they left the rooftops for the ground. Something was odd, and another second later Harry realized that all of his anger and fear had left, and it was like he was hollow except for a strange, clinical curiosity.

A strange giggle escaped his lips, and he didn't miss the sudden tension in the forms of the ANBU, nor the not-quite-fear he could smell even without exposing his tongue to the air. But there was also the smell of old, clinging blood—_(deeper than skin, that no soap could ever erase and would stay with them 'til death)_—that made Harry look more intently to where their eyes were hidden.

The thoughts he caught were much harder to grasp; disjointed words that whispered by like smoke in the dark: _'Threatened Yamanaka…fractured psyche…insane?...strange __**intent**__…'_. Harry shook his head to rid himself of the lingering impressions, and the sense of _duty_ that nearly radiated from the shinobi's minds.

"What are you going to do now?" Harry asked when neither did more than stand and stare at him. The curiosity remained in the absence of fear, but it was now joined by something darker just _waiting_ for them to say the wrong thing.

Strike one was putting him to sleep, making him _defenseless_. Strike two was poking around in his head—_making him __**remember**_—and with how much he _hated_ the invasion he could have counted that against that more than he did… But there were only three strikes. If they got another, Harry would just have to…_repay_ the favor. And, oh, there would be screams, there would be _death_…

"What we do now depends on what you do." It took Harry several seconds to understand. Somehow, the mask seemed to distort the voice, both what it sounded like and where it came from. Had there been more that two ANBU around, he probably wouldn't have been able to tell _who_ spoke.

An intuitive little voice whispered that it was part of a clever intimidation tactic…

Harry remained silent, unsure what to say. At that moment he was acutely aware that he was curled in on himself defensively, surrounded by danger in an alien world. This could be a turning point, he realized. Would he run and hide, go back to the forest where the snakes would never hurt the- _him_ _(__**him**__, not __**them**__; why did he nearly think __**them**__?)_? Or would he stay amongst the humans—give them a chance—and make the first moves towards incorporating himself into this new world..?

At last, Harry sighed. "I won't do anything. I just need a healer…" He uncurled himself and used the wall at his back to stand, managing not to sway too obviously. "I just want to get better."

Harry looked up—his head having dropped to sightlessly stare at his bloodstained front without really intending to—and caught the end of a silent exchange between the two elite shinobi. He was mildly impressed that they could communicate with hand signs without looking at one another, when so much of their peripheral vision must have been obscured by their masks. Fucking _ninja_.

The female tilted her head in what was apparently acquiescence, and was suddenly gone from both sight and sense. Harry's unseen eyes widened before narrowing thoughtfully; did she just teleport using chakra? His head then snapped up in surprise _(why did he keep looking down..?)_ when the last ANBU moved towards him, and his magic swirled in close…just in case…

The man stopped just outside arm's reach, and Harry felt oddly lost when he looked up to the vaguely birdlike mask. "You can't put me to sleep." His mouth seemed to move of its own accord, for the words hadn't been in his thoughts beforehand. "I don't really want to run again." And he knew he was speaking nothing but the truth just then. He _would_ disappear if he had to, but there was an inkling inside him that told Harry that if he had to flee from _here_…that he would _never_—_could _never—stop.

It sounded like there was a frown behind the mask. "I am taking you to the hospital." A statement, not a question; Bird ANBU took a quick step back when Harry's head snapped up to stare fixedly. Again, the phrase _"Strange intent"_ passed through the forefront of the other's thoughts, though it still had no meaning to Harry. But the ninja _was_ at least being truthful, so Harry lowered his head again in acceptance.

The near-silent sound of held breath being released brought a brief wave of paranoia washing over him. The first thoughts he'd read from them were about Yamanaka; Harry still couldn't determine if the mind-reader had _seen_ any of what he unsealed. He would have told the ANBU…would have told them _at least_ about the scars and rancid blood and _rot_ and that must be why they were all walking on eggshells around him..!

"The distance is long yet." The masked head tilted; Harry could _feel_ the eyes scrutinizing him. "I will use a technique to get us there immediately." This was said matter-of-factly, but not commandingly either. Harry hesitated, pretty sure that this "technique" would be using chakra, but nodded once. What else _could_ he do?

For the second time that day an open hand was held out to him, well within easy reach, yet making no move to grab him. "I need at least one point of contact with you." Ah. Well, at least the man hadn't gone and touched him without warning…

Harry sighed quietly, lifting his left arm—the sleeve _not_ soaked with his blood—and placing his wrist in the palm of the calloused hand. He had never been comfortable with anyone touching his hands, could never tolerate the thought of it even when the bond with his friends was at its strongest. Strong _(scarred)_ fingers curled over his wrist slowly, cautiously; Harry frowned at how _tiny_ his arm was in the ninja's hand.

The chakra flared to his senses and there was a sudden disorientation—like the ground was sliding out from under him—and when the scattering of leaves stilled the scenery was very much changed. Harry stood still for a moment, swaying; better than a portkey but he disliked the lack of instantaneousness, like most forms of magical transportation had. If felt…as if he had moved very, very quickly—not teleportation, then.

He got only a moment to look around—the ninja had brought them straight to the hospital; the _rooftop_—before he was lightly pulled towards the single door. Harry frowned when his wrist wasn't released but decided not to bother arguing about it, especially because he could _feel_ how careful the man was to keep his grip loose. That, and he was distracted by the way the ANBU's chakra was pulsing and flaring. There was no doubt in his mind, now, that the other was communicating somehow by using the energy.

The floor felt odd under his feet, and it took him longer than it should have to identify linoleum, but it had been so long since he had _really_ been outside the Wizarding World… The strong glare of florescent, electric lights was also something he didn't look forward to acclimating himself to. While distracted by the…_muggleness_…of the hospital, it still did not escape Harry that so far they had encountered _no one_, and the hallway was isolated… Completely barren of any other presences…

Harry's lips pressed into a tight frown, suddenly very bothered by the man's proximity and contact. He twisted his wrist around in the confining grip, pulling insistently until the shinobi stopped walking and turned to acknowledge him. Harry glared briefly at the hand that wouldn't _let go_—_(carefulcareful, must not put any magic into it lest the little ninja experience an unfortunate accident…)_—but kept his voice hushed when he spoke. Anything to escape the nearness as quickly as possible.

"Is there somewhere I could wash?" He was speaking slowly, careful to pronounce every word of the new language correctly. "The smell of so much blood is starting to make me sick…" Which wasn't exactly true anymore, with the shock of the resurfaced memory fading, but it was the best excuse he had. And getting clean really _did_ sound rather pleasant right now.

"Do you believe you can bathe without assistance?" There was absolutely no inflection in the shinobi's voice; Harry didn't quite manage to keep from shivering uncomfortably at the thought anyway.

Then something bitter and angry rose up inside him, nearly dizzying him from the intensity. "I've managed to last this long without passing out." Some of his feelings must have affected his tone; the fingers around his wrist twitched. "Am I allowed this? Or must you be there to _help_?" The only reason it wasn't _snarled_ was because of the excessive caution he was practicing to keep his fangs and tongue hidden.

He didn't get a verbal response but was lead to a door a short distance down the desolate hallway. Opened, it revealed a tiled bathroom: Clean, with a toilet, sink, mirror, shower stall, towel rack and a few towels. No window to speak of. Hmm. Chakra in the walls, passive, that also felt somewhat familiar.

His wrist was released and Harry quickly drew his arm in close, slinking into the small room. The tiles were almost unpleasantly cool against his feet. He hummed a small noise of thought and looked over his shoulder at the ninja in the hall. It was best to warn him now; it wasn't like they didn't already know he had some sort of power, what with his disappearing act earlier…

"Once this door is closed, you should not open it without warning me first." Harry cautioned, hand on said door.

The expected "Why?" didn't sound much like a question; it sounded wary and resigned though, as if the man was expecting a threat-of-death for daring to open a door and interrupt the boy's shower. Harry almost giggled. Oh, if only it was something so normal.

"I will be taking this—" he gestured briefly to his blindfold "—off. I do not wear it for my health, you know…" Harry trailed off and smiled slightly, not quite enough to show teeth, and not anything near good humored. "I wear it for _yours_." And with that he shut the door. Outside he could feel that the ninja stood still, but again his chakra was fluctuating in that strange code. In a sort of detached way, Harry wondered how hard it was to communicate like that, efficiently.

Morbidly curious, Harry made his way to the mirror. He took one look at his reflection and turned away, suddenly desperate to partake in a shower. That was…really gross. How could so much dirt stick to one person..? Ugh.

With one more suspicious glance at the door, Harry went to the far side of the room to undress. Struggling somewhat with the blood-stiffened robe, he eventually freed himself from the material, tossing it into the bottom of the stall. He would wash his clothes, because it was either wear _them_ out or go wrapped in a towel…no. And like hell was he going to wear filthy clothes when he had the opportunity to get them clean.

The blindfold came off next, pulled loose and the knot carefully undone before it too joined to robe. His ridiculously oversized shirt and pants weren't as dirty, per se—they were _very much_ bloodstained, however. The shirt hurt coming off, as it had become stuck to his chest from the older blood drying around the edges… He actually had to use a charm to un-knot the drawstring holding his pants onto his bony hips; the knot had tightened and crusted over. He very pointedly tried not to think about the quantity of blood held in his clothes: It was more than a person's worth, and that meant that he would be dead right now if Voldemort hadn't forced that potion into him…

It took him a moment to figure out the taps in the shower, but soon enough Harry was crouched under a spray of near-scalding water, watching accumulated grime swirl down the drain. After a long moment of blank starting, tense muscles relaxing under hot water that he literally hadn't felt in _months_, Harry sighed and hooked his robe with a bit of magic, dragging it under the spray with him. With focus too intent for what he was doing, Harry watched as flakes of dried blood peeled away and dissolved, water turning rusty red. Reluctant to simply cast cleaning charms—the material was already thin, he didn't want it to _dissolve_—he enchanted the fabric to gently scrub against itself until the water ran mostly clear. The scent of blood lingered _(it almost seemed stronger now that it was wet again)_ and would likely do so until it got a proper wash.

Harry repeated the process with is other clothes—the bloodstains were even more obvious on the shirt and pants, being a much lighter grey—before wringing them out and sending them to hang on hooks by the door. He couldn't dry them completely—it would be suspicious, as it was obvious he had cleaned them; yet another reason he hadn't used a cleaning charm, as they would have been _too_ clean—but hoped they wouldn't be sodden when he was ready to dress again.

A look around the stall turned up a bar of soap, which was more than adequate for his needs. It wasn't like he hadn't made due before. As if the Dursleys ever let him use _shampoo_; —Harry sneered, the expression bitter—why waste money on the Freak, after all? He scooted back out of the direct spray (glad that the water had finally warmed up the floor) and set to working the lather up in his hands; once satisfied he started to scrub vigorously at his head.

No matter how much the man had helped him at the end—and Harry could respect him for that—Harry did not like the idea that his hair resembled anything _close_ to Snape's. Harry grimaced through the stinging soap suds and "eww-ed" as he rinsed them away; he didn't even _want_ to imagine what had been stuck to him to turn the water that particular shade of green-brown.

It took three more similar scrubbings for the water to finally run clear.

Satisfied with his hair, Harry moved on to the rest of his body, thankful that he had a _big_ bar of soap. When the musty brown dirt started to flake away—it covered ever damned inch of him; _how_ had it gotten under his clothes..?—the color of his skin again gave him pause. Still white to rival Voldemort for paleness…

He caught sight of the multitude of dark, almost red half-circles overlapping up and down his skeletally thin arms. A shudder wracked him violently. He hadn't wanted to remember that, those bites; his time in the dark hadn't seemed so bad until he _remembered that_…

Harry continued washing the dirt from his skin…By feel, this time. He didn't want to see any more scars he had picked up, whether he could recall how he got them or not. It was bad enough that he could feel them, though he was more often distracted by how sharply he could feel all the bones through is skin. Harry couldn't decide which would be worse; knowing _how_ a mark got there or running himself in tortuous circles trying to figure out if he _didn't_ know.

His fingers brushed against something hard and smooth when he started scrubbing at his back. Harry paused, brows coming together in deep confusion as he ran his fingertips over the spot again. There…a line, right over the bumps of his spine. They clicked when he tapped a hard nail against one, and he ran his fingertip over it again, staring intently at the boring tiled wall. They were ridged, right down the middle, and felt familiar…

The answer came to him, and he nearly cursed himself for being so supremely stupid. Of course they felt familiar; those were _basilisk scales_ running down his back! He wouldn't have noticed them before—he couldn't _see_ them and they didn't impede his movement in any way… Bah. He'd look at them in the mirror when he was done.

He continued to scrub harshly at his skin, stopping only once more. When he started on his sides the burning of soap in an open wound surprised him, and he froze, not daring to look for fear of what he should find. But he knew what was there…that _those_ wounds were still open disgusted him, and he continued to scrub with his eyes tightly shut until the entire bar had dissolved. It was only then that he was satisfied enough to rinse himself and shut off the taps. The floor was far colder than was comfortable as he stepped out of the stall to get himself a towel.

With a grim sort of anticipation Harry went back to the mirror, wiping way condensation and glaring mildly at the face that looked back at him. The uneasy feeling that said he looked a bit _too much_ like Voldemort than could possibly be good was stamped down and ignored viciously. He had no real way of knowing how long it had been since he had arrived in this…ninja world, but—he tilted his head—he _might_ have looked less gaunt. A little. Maybe. He looked cleaner, anyway.

He met vivid yellow eyes in the mirror and leaned in closer to the reflection. Last time he had been preoccupied with the sheer yellowness of his eyes, but this time he noticed that the actual _shape_ had changed; they were less round than he remembered, narrower and somewhat slanted. _(Exotic)._ It was probably a good thing he had to keep them covered around other people: They made him look decidedly inhuman, and somewhat evil. _(Excessively serpentine.)_

The purplish bruising he had noticed around his eyes was still there, and now that he was paying attention to it, it really didn't look so much like bruising at all. The color was too uniform…too _purple_. It was actually more like a stain. Harry closed one eye and decided that it was probably a weird, developed skin pigmentation around his eye socket; a dark purple, slanted, pointy-ended oval was superimposed over his eye. It was decidedly striking next to his intensely yellow eyes.

Harry pulled his gaze away from his eyes and huffed quietly, starting on drying his hair with the nearly forgotten towel. That too had changed; his hair was lying flatter than it ever had before, and though still uneven it was long enough to plaster against his neck and touch his shoulders. Then he remembered the scales he'd felt in the shower, and turned his back to the mirror, narrowing his eyes speculatively at what he saw. That could be very valuable…

Basilisk scales ran a single file line down his spine, from the base of his skull to just below his tailbone. One inch wide by two inches long, each, overlapping. He noticed absently that instead of alternating between his signature colors—emerald and avada kedavra green would haunt him 'til his dying day—like in his other form, these scales were all the same. The top and center ridge started bright emerald, but as it spread outwards along the scale it transitioned into a not-quite-avada, acid green.

Harry could admit that they looked pretty wicked, but they were _useful_ because Basilisk scales were harder than _steel_. It'd be really hard for anyone to get a cheap shot at his spine, anyway. _(And with the way these damned shinobi seemed to like throwing around their bladed weapons, it could never hurt…)_

Then his eyes traced a raised scar—from a spell, he could tell immediately—that stretched across his back, from right shoulder to left hip. It took him a moment to recall what that could have been from, but he _did_ remember. This wound was from friendly fire—a Slicing curse from the "Battle of Hogsmeade". That was the wound that got him captured…it could have killed him…Harry sighed and shook his head. That was the past now; it was over…it shouldn't matter…

_But it does_, whispered that traitorous voice inside him. Harry shook his head again, resigned. Though just moments ago he was resolved to _not look_, he now felt the _need_ to see all the new scars he knew now littered his body. He was too tired to bother not to; it wasn't like he could avoid it forever.

Harry started with the scars he knew were there: Shiny white dog bites on his left ankle from when Marge set her dogs on him at Dudley's…eighth (?) birthday party. A large reddish circle on his left arm, just above the crook of his elbow from the Basilisk fang back in second year, although now it competed for attention with red, overlapping bite marks—too many to count. Actually, with all the bites Harry was surprised they were more like _marks_ than indents…But, they probably healed him to keep him from dying… Yes, that sounded plausible; he knew of a potion that could heal wounds like that; sacrificing quality for speed.

He shook himself and continued his catalog, forcing himself into apathy so he could get this done and over with. He could barely see the line on his right inner forearm where Wormtail cut him to bring Voldemort back. "_I must not tell lies_" was still etched clearly and cleanly into the back of his right hand; he comforted himself with the thought that Umbridge was deadeadead, so very _dead_!

Pausing, Harry tilted his head uncertainly; how did he know the bitch was dead..? _How was he so sure?_ No, not now, he'd…remember later. He had to finish this, yet.

He looked down: His chest was free of any _scars_, but there was a vaguely diamond-shaped puncture where that weapon hit Pretty and him. It was still completely open, not healed in the least, but the bleeding was entirely stopped. It looked odd… _(Only the dead don't bleed…)_

His eyes trailed lower and he hissed angrily through his teeth. Those…he knew that some of them were still open, but for them to have _scarred_. That there were some that were already healed and scarred, and some yet open and fresh; all the stages in-between, from scabbed to shiny-pink. The oldest he could tell by color; shallow silver furrows in his skin, on his sides and hips. Crisscrossing, overlapping, and oh-so-obvious as to what they were, what they were from. Harry shuttered his expression and turned his eyes away, facing the mirror again.

That line across his throat…that was from the ritual he had performed back in sixth year. He hadn't thought it left a scar…Harry looked closer and saw that there were _two_ lines, one over another. The foreboding feeling fell upon him tenfold; Harry couldn't remember how he'd got a _second_ cut there. It didn't bode well. The neck was only for _ritual_ cutting—he was forgetting a _ritual_. Not good at all…

There were three vertical scratches—still open—by his right eye, starting just below a thin eyebrow and ending roughly at his cheek. He stared for a moment before his eyes slid away in disinterest; he had scratched himself while in the Dark Forest, in his haste to remove the blindfold. Harry raised a hand and thin fingers flicked the wet fringe of his hair away to reveal his ill begotten "famous" scar—

There was no lightning bolt curse scar on his forehead. His fingers shook, tracing the spot where he _knew_ his scar had always been. Nothing was there. Just smooth, pale skin. He wanted to be happy—he _hated_ that scar—but it felt wrongwrongwrong—

_("Your scar is already fading," Voldemort's sibilant voice whispered to him, a cold finger tracing over his forehead—)_

What had he done? Voldemort made the scar _he_ had marked Harry with _go away_; it had to mean something! The scar…mark…had faded first, not immediately disappearing… Shit; _mark_. _**('And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal…')**_ Something icy cold settled in his stomach: Had Voldemort tried to circumvent the Prophecy? What if…What if he had escaped death yet again…and now Harry was gone away and unable to do a _damn thing_, and he was alive and killing all the people Harry had given his _whole fucking life for_—

The lights began to flicker. The mirror, being the most fragile thing in his magic's reach, cracked; wicked shards fell off the wall and shattered loudly on the cold tile floor, somehow not cutting Harry as they did.

The sound of the breaking mirror brought Harry back to himself enough to reign in his magic before it could do serious damage, clasping his hands tightly together when he realized that at some point he had crouched as close to the floor as he could get without sitting. Calm, calm, he had to be calm; there were suspicious ninja around… Speaking of…

"Harry!" The pronunciation was odd, and the tone of voice suggested that it wasn't the first time he had been called. A surge of panic hit him—_how did that ninja know his name?_—before he recalled that _this _was one of the ANBU who had found him in the Tower, and he _had_ given them his name.

Harry _also_ noticed that the man had made no move to open the door, had heeded his warning about the danger hidden under the blindfold. Smart man.

And then he noticed that he was naked, on the verge of another breakdown, in the middle of a bathroom in potentially hostile territory. _Awkward_, to say the least.

At a loss at what to say, Harry rasped out a careful "Sorry about the mirror." as he stood properly again. It wasn't beyond his ability to fix—not by a long shot—but he'd rather they underestimate his level of power. He was a cagey enough character as it was.

"…Do I want to know?" The reply came after a long pause.

Do you want to know? Know that Harry had just freaked over the thought of an evil, somewhat immortal megalomaniac that he had killed—had been tortured and broken while waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill—could still be alive and destroying what Harry sacrificed himself to save? That _only he_ could save?

"No," Harry replied dully "You probably do not." And even if he did, Harry didn't want to tell.

"Are you done, then? There is a room prepared for you just down the hall." Huh. Wonder when that happened? Harry hadn't felt the man move from his place outside the door even slightly, and he hadn't felt anyone come near him, either.

"Not yet. A few more minutes," Harry stated shortly, stepping carefully to avoid the little slivers of mirror on the floor as he went to get his clothes.

Wet clothes, Harry discovered—pants especially—were very uncomfortable; more so when one was sadly without underwear… They didn't try to slide off as readily though, as they were too busy sticking to him like a _fucking second skin_. Harry shivered as he cuffed the pant legs back up a few inches—still sending occasional wary glances at the door, and the ninja he could feel outside it—and dimly hoped he didn't catch a cold.

Donning his shirt and robe made Harry feel very heavy and decidedly miserable, though he was now clean and it felt _good_, so his mood ended up solidly neutral. His blindfold was carefully secured over his eyes; Harry went so far as to check his reflection in one of the scattered shards to be _sure_ his eyes remained unseen. Heaving a quiet sigh Harry opened the door, tilting his head in a vaguely questioning way.

The silence that greeted him was unexpected; it felt _startled_. Harry flicked his eyes up to meet the holes in the Bird mask, concentrating hard to catch any relevant thoughts. The man _was_ shocked—his thoughts almost seemed to stutter: _'No way in hell…that's not possible..!'_

Before Harry could catch any more the ninja snapped out of his little stupor. There was no doubt it Harry's mind that the man had averted his eyes slightly, and when he spoke the tone was just a little harder than before. "Come on. You can rest a while before you have to answer some questions." A small inhale through his mouth told Harry that the man was the slightest bit…nervous? Fearful? What the hell..? What had happened; what had _changed_?

He shrugged minutely and followed at the shinobi's side as he was lead to his "room". It pleased him that no attempt was made to take hold of his wrist again; it had to be for the same reason the man was very careful to keep Harry in his peripheral vision.

The room was plain; a small bed on the far left side—Harry made note that there was a good sized space between it and another wall, a nice hiding place—with an equally small table at its side. An uncomfortable looking chair sat opposite the bed, and a window set off center in the wall across from the only door. _(The window nearly hummed with chakra, and he knew without even touching it that it wouldn't open, and probably wouldn't break.)_ In a corner was one of those metal hook-things like in a muggle hospital, which was used to hold IV drips.

Bird-mask advised him to be seated when "company arrived"—which, he assumed, would be shortly—and then closed Harry in the little room while he stayed in the hall. When the man's chakra fluctuated this time it was to bring four more _identical_ presences into existence, though they quickly scattered to who-knew-where. Harry didn't spare it any more thought.

Instead, he drifted over to the window with a limp slightly clumsier because of the wet material clinging to his legs. The view was nice; he was not at ground level, so was able to see over some of the trees in the …park?...that surrounded the hospital. The little he could see told him that his place was _big_; far larger than the first and last village he had seen of this world. Hmm. Quite a bit more modern, as well, for everywhere he looked there were small signs of electricity.

Harry shook his head and refocused on the window, this time on the faint reflection of his face that showed up on the clean glass. He watched the reflection's pale lips move, catching a subtle glint of sharp teeth in the mouth; there was no sound, but at some point over the years—he wasn't sure when—he had become fairly good at reading lips.

"You need to sort out your memories…know what you forgot," The reflection told him silently, frowning. "They are painful, wreaking havoc. Left alone they will continue damaging your mind…" It paused, expression caught between a smile and a sneer. "You really cannot afford for that to be happening."

Harry sighed and turned away, moving into the small space between window-wall and bed, standing with his back to the corner. Damaging his mind..? He shuddered: What would happen if those… _cancerous_ memories reached his center? Would they break through the miasmic shield his magic made? …Scar that ground, too—make the ground, his _mind_, seep cold blood, reek of decay?

He knew, somehow, that by the time he scarred that deeply that it wouldn't matter to him anymore. He would be a monster in constant pain, satisfied only by the thought of others suffering with him… Because if he was in pain, shouldn't everyone else be?

Harry tilted his head, leaning it against the wall as his brows came together in mild confusion. Is…was _that_ why Voldemort became such a vile Dark Lord? Had something scarred him so deeply that his only "joy" was to cause misery..?

_No,_ the tiny voice in him whispered, with some amusement. _Voldemort made his choices carefully; he did that to himself…_

Harry shuddered again and pushed the little voice back, but he had resolve now. The thought of his peaceful center scarred was initiative enough: He would…take care of his…_forgotten_ memories. It would take a while though.

Standing silently in the corner, Harry wondered if these "ninja" would allow him peace long enough to sort it out.

He found himself somehow doubting they would.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** I know some of you will be disappointed that Harry's not staying with Iruka or anything, but this is what I already had planned... Thanks everybody for your continued reviews; they are really quite inspiring when I'm stuck. Please, leave another and tell me what you think~ Anyone want to try and guess what's going on now? XD


	8. Chapter 6: The Fire Shadow

**A/N: **A long wait, but not as long as it could have been :3 Thank you all for your inspiring reviews; sad to say this chapter is a little shorter than my norm, but it is completely necessary to move the plot onwards. Enjoy!

Chapter 6; The Fire Shadow

A few minutes of standing in the quiet corner was all Harry needed to decide that if he didn't do _something_ soon he would be tempted to do something…unwise. _(The movement of the ANBU's chakra really was too interesting; it wasn't his fault he wanted to prod at it…)_ The alternative to alleviate his anxious boredom was already starting, his head hitting the wall behind him with more force the longer he was required to wait.

He already had enough damage to his head, thank-you-very-much. He didn't really need—nor could he afford—any more.

So Harry needed to find something to do—besides go stir crazy—while he waited for some people to "ask him questions". Though he was skeptical about the "questioning" thing, they hadn't outright killed him so he took it as a good sign. The situation was outside his realm of experience; Harry had never been questioned (read: interrogated) before. Voldemort had simply stolen anything he wanted out of his head, and no one on "his" side ever bothered to ask him anything, just assuming their own answers.

Either way, the ninja were taking their merry time about it.

What to do..? He shouldn't fool around with his magic where it was so easy to be caught in the act… He could always talk with his reflection, but Harry realized—in a moment of rare, startling clarity—that that thought sounded decidedly _off_, and he shouldn't do something to feed the giant Crazy living in his skull. It was quite large enough, apparently.

Another few glaringly silent minutes passed, and Harry reluctantly acknowledged that now would be an adequate time to figure out _how_ to recall the previously-forgotten memories drifting aimlessly though his mind. How does one go about looking for something they've _forgotten_? It wasn't as if his mind was organized _before_—he was no master Occlumens…

At a loss as to what else to do, Harry slid down the wall until he was seated—hidden—in the corner and set his mind loose from its trappings, hoping he would know if he came upon the memories he'd locked away…

The free drifting was nice, was still Sanctuary, and that feeling alone let Harry know he was going about his search the wrong way. The whole reason that he had forgotten—his mind secreting the memories away and cordoning them off—in the first place was because they were _painful_. They were _still_ painful, capable of hurting him even now; he wouldn't find them by taking refuge in his sanctuary. So…instead of casting himself our far he had to dive inward? Look close to his core…in the physical recall, not the ethereal fog…

It suddenly sprang to mind that Harry _knew_ Dolores Umbridge—the beastly toad of a woman—was dead, but he couldn't remember _how_ he knew—

As if summoned by the thought, a creeping, poisonous _thing_ slithered across his mind and Harry snatched out to grab it before it could disappear back into smoke—

_The mouth of a cool glass vial was held to his lips; Harry swallowed the bitter potion numbly. He hadn't fought swallowing a potion in a long time, weary of the agony that followed if he resisted. It never seemed to be the same; sometimes the other would tear across his mind until he screamed, sometimes it would be…less creative, but no less painful. Harry was tired of the pain, for he was always healed but never fully, and he always seemed more sensitive after the worst hurts had mostly gone…_

_A soothing warmth wrapped over his mind; it felt so good—it shouldn't feel so good—and he was drifting, soaking in a warm cloud, and he almost sobbed because it felt **too good**…_

_"Harry," a voice purred, and he opened heavy eyes to look blearily into pools of glowing red. "Ah, _good_. I have a gift for you, Harry; I know you will like it…"_

_He didn't question when the other wrapped around him, sank into him; Harry could feel their presence looming over him, from within, their mind overlapping his. Not fully though, which was odd, because he knew—didn't care, he felt too good to care—that the other could easily overtake him. _

_He long since had lost hold of the feelings of love and hope to fight Possession._

_The heavy chains trailing from his wrists detached from the base throne they held him to, coiling up his arms like icy-cold snakes._

_"Stand up," the other's voice ordered, using Harry's mouth. "Follow Lucius; your gift is waiting down the hall…" Harry stood with the other's strength, dully following the platinum-haired Death Eater out of the throne room._

_The room they entered was…sterile, Harry noticed through the murky, warm fog. More Death Eaters standing along the walls—an oddly shaped lump at the center of the floor. _

_Oh, that lump was a person…_

_"Go on, Harry," the other's voice purred, again speaking though Harry's mouth. "There is your gift. Do with it as you wish." The presence overlapped him a bit more, urging him towards the person-lump._

_'Dolores Umbridge,' Harry thought, looking upon the frozen, toad-like visage of the battered person-lump. The warm cocoon his mind was wrapped in grew a little thinner, a little colder. The presence drew back some, but its strength remained._

_That-that **woman**. She was a pox on humanity—torturing children in the name of her 'precious Ministry'. Harry sneered._

_Some of the dullness left him, and the chain attached to his right wrist unwound from his arm, dangling heavily at his side. Harry tested it, grabbed it tightly and moved it over the ground. Yesss, it would work…_

_The presence chuckled in his head, having read his intentions; some of it wound deeper into him, prodding at his deadened emotions to stir the fury._

_Harry chuckled with it, aloud. The Death Eaters shifted._

_Harry hefted the chain, spun it in quick circles at his side to acclimate himself to it—and then slammed it down across the prone woman's face. The skin split easily under the impact, and her nose gushed blood._

_Someone had given her back the ability to scream. Harry **reveled** in it, though he stayed silent. His face was set in a grim smile, his work methodical; the expression was his, not the other's._

_Harry continued his attack mercilessly, his smile widening each time he heard the telltale **crack** of a bone snapping under the chain's assault. The dark metal turned slick crimson, and warm blood was spattered over the un-masked faces of the silent audience._

_The whistling of the spinning chain was silenced only when the lump that used to be a person was rendered to a lump of bloody meat and broken bones. Her screaming had ended long ago._

_The other laughed through his mouth, darkly amused. "That was quite the show, Harry. Very muggle, but entertaining none the less."_

_Harry didn't respond, staring blankly at the heap of flesh at his feet. The potion had worn off at some point—he didn't know when, didn't notice—and the warmth was gone._

_He wasn't as cold as he felt he should have been._

_Voldemort laughed. Or Harry did; he couldn't tell the difference.—_

Harry came back to himself with a long, steady sigh. Well, that explained why he had been so sure that the awful woman was dead—he killed her! _(How many people had he killed..?) _Under…unusual…circumstances, but he had killed the woman at least somewhat of his own free will. _(Did it make any difference? Voldemort would have made him kill her anyway…)_ The idea sat nice in his head, so Harry decided not to be guilty about it—not like the guilt (_something like guilt…responsibility?_) he felt for disemboweling Ginny Weasley, even if he _was_ fully Possessed at the time. Like with so many other things, he pushed his feeling to the back of his mind, reluctant to analyze much of what he thought about.

He pondered the memory, tilting his head in confusion; Voldemort had been…_weird_ in that experience. He'd given Harry a _present_. Yes, the monster had drugged him first, but he'd still given him a _gift_. (And with how much time the Dark Lord spent lurking around his head, he'd surely known just how much Harry _hated_ that woman.) There was something decidedly _off _about the event, and it niggled at him that so far he hadn't been able to place _when_ each memory took place. Besides the general two timeframes: 'in the Dark' and 'at Voldemort's side'.

Harry frowned; he couldn't even make a timeline in relation to each memory. There wasn't the slightest hint that this had taken place before or after Ginny's incident or…—his frown morphed into a frightening snarl—near the time the monster had decided to leave telling scratches (than should not have scarred!) over his sides.

There was no time for further thought, however, as Harry suddenly felt a group of strong presences moving in his direction—it was rather telling, as there seemed to be _no one_ else in the hall. One of the group was strong, far stronger than any he'd felt before, and practically shone like a beacon to his senses. But. It seemed to be…waning? Hmm.

Harry realized—the moment he _heard_, not _saw_ the doorknob turning—that he was still sitting in the corner. On the floor. Out of their direct line of sight. Not exactly a good thing when dealing with people that dubbed him suspicious enough to leave someone guarding the door of a room they probably thought inescapable. Oops?

Feeling a bit like he imagined a child getting caught stealing a cookie did (imagined, because if _he_ ever got caught stealing food from the Dursleys he would have been hit with the nearest heavy implement and starved for a week; not at all the usual punishment for a child, surely), Harry stiffly got to his knees and peeked over the top of the mattress that blocked him from view. He found it hard to continue thinking of himself as an almost-eighteen year old, so he promptly decided not to bother thinking about it. He would act how he felt like; let the people who gave a damn try to make sense of it.

His eyes were drawn to the beacon of power, and landed on an old man in white robes. He actually looked pretty feeble…but Harry knew better. The man had a presence about him—one felt without magic, that had nothing to do with the man's 'chakra'—that told of experienced wisdom. The look he wore was the same as Dumbledore after receiving news that Voldemort had wiped another family off the face of the earth: Sorrow, world weariness, a bit of hope and the slight, underlying inkling that the man had done wrong somehow, that he could have prevented this from happening if he had just done _more_.

That kind of look set Harry on edge, especially when it was directed anywhere _near_ him. It was even worse when it came from someone he _didn't know_. People that could hold that feeling and still look like a kindly old grandfather tended to be far too adept at manipulating people.

But, no; Harry could never feel quite the same around _this_ old man as he would Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster's magic had created an impressive aura around the man—that magic was still at its peak well into his one hundred some-odd years. This man, though, was not a wizard. He did not have magic—ageless magic—that was forever tied to the soul. This man was fading with age. Harry realized an aspect of the chakra's feel; it was _physical_. A power tied to the body, not strictly the soul. No matter their fantastic power, chakra was physical, and thus would fade as the body drew to its end…

Harry found himself wondering about the effects of immortality on chakra… The little voice said it would be an interesting study, especially if _he_ found a way to use it…

"Hokage-sama," said one of the three others that had crowded into the room with the old man. Harry startled and bared his teeth on reflex—which was thankfully hidden by the fact that only his covered eyes were peeking over the mattress—when he realized that it was the Yamanaka man speaking, standing among two more unfamiliar ANBU. His magic sensed Bird mask still standing outside the again-closed door. After he noticed Yamanaka he had a very hard time focusing on anything else, and was forced to direct more attention on his magic to keep from accidentally killing the mind-reader.

"Yes, of course," the old man said, voice neutral. Harry knew he was missing a big part of an unspoken conversation, and it told him nothing if not _one_ thing. They already had an idea—a plan—for how they were going to deal with him. Once again, though, they hadn't tried to kill him outright so for now he would go along with it.

Harry was in no mood to be left in the dark, however; his eyes locked onto the light green of Yamanaka's and he delved as deeply—thoroughly—as he dared without drawing attention. He wouldn't have even bothered being careful if it wasn't for the fact that the man had _some sort_ of skill in a form of Mind Arts. (That, and Legilimency could hurt like a bitch if he didn't show a little restraint, and it was rather telling for the recipient.)

He didn't bother reading the old man; for a reason he couldn't pinpoint he had an intense aversion to trying to poke around _his_ head… Maybe the 'resemblance' to Dumbledore? _(Though that didn't explain why he felt he would try and tear the man's mind asunder…)_

It took a few moments for Harry to puzzle out the mind-reader's thoughts, and when he did it left him both amused and a bit confused. Apparently, at first they suspected him of being sent for nefarious purposes (and they assumed that not _all_ the blood that he'd been covered in was, in fact, his own) and treated him to some interrogation technique by Yamanaka. Something about not being able to lie while trapped in your mind..? The blond was borderline horrified at the state of his mind—being quite skilled in that technique he _knew_ how a healthy mind was supposed to look—but was suspicious of the shadows sealing away an objective…like a sleeper agent?

Harry learned—to his great relief—that Yamanaka had _not_ seen the contents of the forgotten memories, though he had been able to sense impressions of Harry's emotions while he experienced them. Hmm… Oh, they were alarmed by the way he'd disappeared from the little interrogation room. He'd apparently been seated over a …seal? That prevented the use of chakra.

After he'd regained his bearings, Yamanaka had informed the others that _"No one sane would send that boy on a mission if they intended to have it completed. It's amazing he can move, let alone function."—_they still spent half the day searching for him.

Then a …_kage bunshin?_ Of Bird mask appeared from the hospital, saying that the Hokage was being informed, but they needed an interrogator _now_ because that boy from the Tower looked eerily like a certain Snake Sannin, and hadn't the Forest of Death been his favored training ground..?

Damn. Yamanaka had an odd expression on his face; could he have possibly felt the intrusion into his thoughts? Harry couldn't decide if that would be bad—if the man tried to call him on it… Harry didn't feel like running, but it might be amusing… _(And Harry had always been tempted to play with fire.)_

Alas, it wasn't to be.

"What are you doing down there?" Yamanaka's voice was level and mildly curious. Frankly, Harry hadn't expected that question in his 'interrogation'.

"Waiting," Harry replied slowly, quietly, casting a wary eye over the four shinobi. The bed acting as barrier between he and them wasn't nearly enough for him to feel comfortable. Most especially not when the temptation was still brewing to make Yamanaka _writhe_. "It is for you, is it not?"

The blond nodded in response, accepting Harry's answer as a perfectly reasonable one, thought Harry was _sure_ he hadn't answered what the man really wanted to know. _Why_ he was on the floor. The next one _was_ expected though, redundancy not yet annoying: "What is your name?"

"Harry," he answered mildly, and didn't bother correcting him when his pronunciation was off. Harry shifted closer to the bed, lifting his head high enough to rest his chin atop the mattress; he didn't miss the –quickly stilled— uncomfortable shifting of one of the ANBU.

"Do you have a family name?" Completely of their own volition, Harry's lips quirked into a small smile.

"No." Because this was his chance to be _just_ Harry. His chance to make his own name, no longer compared to memories of the father he never knew. That name was more of a trademark, anyway; a representation of everything he'd wanted to escape. Synonymous with the 'Boy-Who-Lived' and the 'Chosen One'.

Besides, 'Potter Harry' would sound just _weird_.

Harry's eyes shifted briefly to the 'Hokage'; curiously, the old man looked very nearly pained. Interesting…

"Do you have a family?" Harry's unseen eyes narrowed, a frown pressing his lips even thinner. That was an unusual question—a leading one. Recalling what he stole from Yamanaka, there was mention of him _looking_ like someone they knew. Who were they mistaking him for? What did they think they knew about him? _(How could he work this to his favor, when they appeared wary of him already?)_

"They're dead," Harry responded in the same mild, almost-pleasant tone he'd kept when answering all their questions thus far. He rubbed the back of his sleeve-covered hand over the itching scratches on his face, the movement exposing more of his face as still-wet hair was brushed aside. "Parents killed when I was very young, the last of my relatives killed last year." He realized belatedly that most people would be…upset, to announce such a thing (and he used to be, for his parents anyway…).

No comment was made on his answer; they simply moved on to the next question. "How did you come to be in an enclosed, monitored Training Ground?" Harry tilted his head, brows furrowed; they probably wouldn't like any answer he could give…

"I needed to be somewhere safe…" Harry cast his arms over the mattress to pull himself off the floor, tired of them _literally_ looking down on him. "The forest is where I turned up." He didn't need to read their minds to know they were incredulous to his claim; they apparently deemed the forest much more dangerous than he. "Why?"

The blond visibly startled, and Harry wondered why he was so surprised, until he recalled this man deemed it a miracle he could talk _at all_, so asking questions and _expecting answers_ would come as quite a shock… Then Yamanaka narrowed his eyes, and Harry felt he had just derailed them from any more pre-determined script.

"Do you know who I am?" His tone had changed subtly. It wasn't the pretentious kind of question (not like Draco Malfoy would have asked) but one of suspicious curiosity. Harry didn't even think before responding, a vindictive feeling breaking through his emotional sterility.

"You were in my head, Yamanaka Inoichi; of course I know who you are." His voice stayed perfectly pleasant, though it had a disquieting brittle undertone. His face was absolutely blank. "Do come in again. We can see how much damage letting loose those memories has caused." Harry didn't want the shinobi in his head—the 'suggestion' was a taunt, was a trap. Should the man actually try to enter Harry would do everything in his power to _break_ him.

"Damage?" Harry turned his head to the Hokage when he spoke. "I was under the impression that some sort of block had been opened. What sort of damage could that cause?" His tone was one of impartial curiosity. Harry smiled a small, bitter smile—the old man flinched minutely, showing that old pain again—but remained silent, turning his head back to Yamanaka.

(In a distracted moment Harry noticed that for wearing such stand-out masks and crowding in a small room, those two ANBU did a damn good job of disappearing right into the wall…)

"Hokage-sama," Yamanaka started, eyes drifting to his leader before moving back to Harry. "I made a mistake. I saw an anomaly within my technique and thought it to be a seal of some sort. It was not." Harry barely restrained himself from saying "Of _course_ not", settling instead for a quiet scoff that was still heard quite clearly in the room.

He was surprised, however, when the look the blond aimed at him was deeply apologetic as he continued to elaborate. "When one undergoes a significantly traumatic experience the subconscious mind will sometimes lock the memory away, to protect the conscious mind." Against his control, Harry found himself tensing angrily. "I have seen this type of block before, but assumed it must have been something else… I didn't expect someone so young to have so much locked within them." There was such a _sorry_, _understanding_ look in his eyes. The tension held within—the brewing anger—caused Harry to shake. "I am sorry."

"Sorry is not good enough!" Harry snarled, accent thick and fangs bared as he leaned over the bed, unseen eyes fixed on the blond. He felt more than saw the shocked tension in the other three. "You don't know what he did to me—what he made me do! I didn't want to know either!" His voice broke with an embarrassing screech and Harry collapsed back onto the wall, drained from the outburst, and the inexplicable truth revealed from it.

He would have been better off not knowing.

The silence in the room was that of the dead, but it didn't bother Harry; the presences sharing the space with him _did_. An expression of disgust crawled across his face when he realized its source. Long months of torturous solitude in his dark cell, and then in the constant company of the Dark Lord… He had been conditioned to be repulsed by the slightest humanoid presence.

"Harry," he looked to the Hokage, the first to speak after his outburst. Harry was quickly becoming sick of the sad, wary look in their eyes. "Why are you _here_; why are you in Konohagakure?"

Village Hidden in the Leaves. Konohagakure. Konoha. This place was some militaristic sort of village—it was obviously the shinobi that held the power here.

"One of your own found me as I was bleeding out." Measures of the truth were the easiest to keep straight, especially because he didn't want to have to elaborate. "He did not attempt to cause me harm, and offered me the hospital. I wish to recover." Harry sighed, tension draining away as the sudden rage left as quickly as it came. "What do you intend to—" 'try and' "—do with me?"

He would ask now, and was at least confident that he could tell truth from lie when the old man spoke. The questions seemed to be coming to their end in this little interrogation, but Harry felt the most important part was yet to come. When they decided if he was a threat worth neutralizing or someone they would deem to help.

Be it the former, Harry would get to test how well his spells worked against shinobi, _and_ he hadn't yet revealed enough for them to use against him. Be it the latter…well. He would have to deal with the repercussions and expectations of that as they came.

"Truthfully," the old man mused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "The circumstances surrounding your appearance are suspicious at best. If there was not already proof that you can easily escape an interrogation cell, you would likely be there." He appeared quite grim, and there was no lie in the dark eyes. Despite the discouraging content, the fact that he was _saying_ it was somehow reassuring.

Harry nodded silently in understanding, also confirming that _of course_ he could escape a cell… The Hokage scrutinized him and continued. "I am, however, willing to let you stay here—in the Konoha Hospital—provided you abide by the conditions I give." There was still no lie in his eyes, though there was _something_—surely not violent—that Harry still couldn't bring himself to look deep enough to know. He still held that disquieting knowledge that he would surely rip apart the leader's mind if he tried a deeper reading.

"What are your terms?" Harry asked carefully, voicing a small amount of caution. So far, a good offer—what better a place to recover than a hospital?—but he wouldn't tie himself here for a crap deal. He didn't have the patience to tolerate it.

That, and the voice was again whispering about how nice the snakes in the forest would be…

"You must be supervised at all times, by at least one of this Village's shinobi. Deliberate escape from this supervision—meaning your teleportation technique—" Harry didn't bother containing his slight giggle at the apprehensively sharpening eyes. "Will result in the assumption that you harbor ill-intent towards Konoha and a kill-on-sight order will be issued."

Something about the last part was an almost-lie; the Hokage didn't seem to _want_ to issue that order—_may not _issue it—for whatever reason.

Harry nodded his acknowledgement, distractedly tugging at his robe to get it to detach itself from its tightening hold. The lull in conversation lasted until he again looked up—when had he turned away..?—and found them staring at him. _Again_. He tilted his head slightly to one side.

Yamanaka had that weary, almost-sad feeling about him again, but the Hokage seemed just a bit bemused as he continued listing his conditions. They included submitting to a full medical exam; Harry wasn't the least bit thrilled about that. (He was secretly amused by the thought of their reactions to his _other_ snakey bits, even if it wouldn't be quite so surprising from the fang-baring incident.) He would also have to continue answering any questions posed by Yamanaka—and _only_ Yamanaka. This part was stressed.

That was all that was demanded of him at this time, thought he was warned that as time passed the conditions could be subject to change. It wasn't nearly as bad –as restricting— as he'd expected it would be.

"I will answer to the best of my ability," Harry corrected slowly; to himself he said 'I will tell you what I want you to know, and nothing more.' "I can agree to abide your conditions."

"And do you?" Yamanaka spoke, voice sharp. Harry tilted his head in question. "You said you _can_ abide the conditions, so do you? _Will_ you?"

"I will." The barest hint of a smile played on the edge of pale, thin lips. A sharp one, this man. The questions just may turn out to be interesting.

It didn't escape Harry that the Hokage had never said _why_ they were allowing him to stay in their village, that the conversation had been steered clear of it, in fact. The voice whispered, slyly, that the old man knew he couldn't keep the- _him_ here, and was likely trying to earn his gratitude so that he would feel responsible to pay back the favor.

_In other words—_ it continued, smugly –_the old man is using you._

Harry snorted in amusement; just let him _try_.

He tilted his head back up—why did he keep looking down..?—when the presences in the room started moving. Harry stayed still and silent as the ANBU drifted out the door, Yamanaka and the Hokage standing close together and talking in low tones—too low for Harry to hear. Then the old man left, the blond giving him a sharp, respectful nod as the door closed and left only Harry and the mind-reader in the room. His magic felt the Hokage and one of the ANBU move into the more inhabited parts of the hospital, while the other masked shinobi stood with Bird mask outside the door.

Lightly skimming his thoughts as the man sat himself on the uncomfortable looking chair at the foot of the bed, Harry found that the blond had been given free reign in questioning. Yamanaka was dwelling on the altered protocol he'd been given to _report_ however: He'd been commanded to write only one copy of what he found, and give it _directly_ to the Hokage. The mind-reader believed, although it hadn't been said aloud, that Harry's presence was to be kept out of public information—a secret.

"Now what?" Harry asked when it became apparent the man was waiting for him to speak. (The voice said it was because the blond couldn't tell if he was 'there' or not, with the way his attention kept drifting…He was apparently zoning out more than he thought. Harry had to reluctantly agree.)

"We wait until a medic-nin comes to check your health." Harry snorted at the somewhat dubious tone the other tried to hide; oh yes, this would be funny. Yamanaka continued without the slightest reaction to Harry's 'response'. "Until then, you can continue to answer my questions." It sounded more like a request than an order; Harry shrugged a shoulder. 'I don't care.'

Yamanaka leaned forward in his chair, studying Harry with shadowed green eyes as Harry moved further into the corner in the gap between bed and window-wall. Harry's lips quirked slightly when he caught the question a second before it left the other's mouth. "Why do you wear a blindfold?"

The blond had already seen Harry's eyes, when they met in his mind—that much was certain. (He could see an image of himself in the other's thoughts; was he really that _small_?) So far he showed no inkling that he knew they were dangerous; had bird-mask not yet conveyed Harry's warning? It _would_ be reported, irregardless, so he couldn't lie and say they weren't dangerous… And really, he didn't want to admit that his gaze was _deadly_. That was just _asking_ to be assassinated. People tended to get a bit pissy if one said they could kill without even trying, _accidentally_ even.

Harry imagined ninja would take it even worse.

"My eyes are dangerous." Harry said with a bit of scorn. "You saw them; you think they're like that just to look pretty?" The man looked surprised and Harry wondered what he'd said wrong.

"They're always active?" That…did nothing to further his understanding. Harry skimmed his mind once more and found thoughts of 'Doujutsu' and 'undetectable chakra..?'; it didn't mean much to him now, but he pushed it away to think of later.

"I cannot control them yet," Harry admitted after a moment—it was true enough. "So long as no one can see them, there is no danger."

"And you can still see?" Yamanaka asked in confirmation, leaning back in his chair again. Something in the open posture made the ever-wary part of him relax somewhat. Harry tilted his head.

"I can see very well." True, now that his eyes were those of a basilisk, but not why he could see through the blindfold.

He could just imagine how much fun he could have if they ever 'found out' about his magic. Huh. He didn't know their word for 'magic' yet…hadn't even snatched the word out of their minds as he had been doing the entire time he'd used legilimency on any of them.

Harry twitched slightly when he picked up on a new presence entering the nearly-empty hall. It was probably the 'medic-nin'…ugh. He really was dreading a medical exam. They'd make him take off his robe—see all his scars. Ask questions he'd prefer were left unasked.

Wait…that presence was familiar! That was one of the ANBU that had intercepted him when Umino attempted to bring him to the hospital! Harry turned his head to face the door as the presence stopped by the two other ANBU, and a second later the knob twisted, the door opened. A woman entered, wearing a cream colored almost-robe and odd hat; apparently, a 'medic-nin'. But Harry _knew_ she was ANBU…and now he was curious as to _what_ ANBU really were.

And then the woman's eyes landed on him, and seemed to sharpen. Harry repressed a shiver; that was the look Madame Pomfrey got just before she spelled someone to a bed in her Hospital Wing 'for their own good'.

He felt the slightest bit of doubt enter his mind…maybe here _wasn't_ the best place to recover. Healers were _scary_; surely being stuck in ones' care couldn't be good for his mental health!

The voice agreed.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** Well? Anyone confused yet? This clear anything up for the ones already holding suspicions? Here's your first hint of timeline for those wondering! The Sandaime lives! Anyone absolutely distrubed? I know this chapter was pretty slow, and not much went on, but I have to build up... And this Arc shows some fun development...and a bit of Harry interacting with Konoha :3

Review please~ And remember, if you want your questions answered, either sign in (and allow PMs!) or check my profile!


	9. Chapter 7: Measures of Truth

**A/N:** Well hello there :3 Here's another chapter for you~

Chapter 7; Measures of Truth, Depth of Lies

"Good evening, Yamanaka-san," the 'medic-nin' greeted the blond respectfully, her dark eyes finally releasing Harry as her attention shifted. Harry blinked slowly at her words; it was evening already? Where had the time gone? It had been early afternoon when the Hokage and his entourage come into the room…

Harry kept his eyes on the woman as she and the interrogator exchanged greetings. Yes, there was no doubt that this was the female ANBU —one of the group that had intercepted him— but without the mask. In that healer garb she was an entirely different entity. Was it just her, or did all the ANBU undergo these alter-ego transformations?

Harry looked over at the interrogator's call, finding both of them watching him intently. He couldn't quite suppress an… annoyed twitch, that someone always seemed to be watching him. He responded with a hum that sounded vaguely questioning, tilting his head a fraction of a degree. Call it childish, but Harry did _not_ want to move, to leave the little space between bed and wall.

There was some silent meaning conveyed when the healer tapped Yamanaka's shoulder, though Harry felt no desire to look through their thoughts and know. The obviously fit man stood from the lone chair and moved to stand closer to the far corner of the room, a more comfortable distance away.

Harry thought it was weird that he hadn't realized he was uncomfortable with the man's proximity to him, until he'd moved away.

"Well, come over here so I can get a look at you." Harry hesitated uneasily before complying with the woman's command, walking slowly around the bed and painfully aware of the limp he could do nothing to hide. If she so desired, the healer could take two steps and be able to touch him. Harry complied with her next command silently, struggling out of his clinging, water-heavy robe. The effort left him breathing heavier than he should have, magic-numbed nerves and muscles screaming at the exertion.

The silence was loud.

Harry's lips twitched into a cruel, ironic smile; oh yes, he bet they were feeling bad about themselves now. He'd escaped their interrogation cell and evaded their notice for _hours _—and looked like he shouldn't even be walking.

When he'd been in the shower, cleaning himself of the accumulated grime, Harry became painfully aware of his body's condition. In a word, _horrific_. Far worse than the Dursleys had ever inflicted through their neglect; there had probably been healthier looking corpses from the Concentration Camps of the muggle Holocaust. Then again, that was because the only thing keeping Harry alive by the end of eight months was the _potions_. He was only alive because of magic.

According to these muggles —ninja though they may be— it probably wasn't possible for him to still be alive.

The clothes couldn't have made his image look any better. They were standard Azkaban issue —thin gray t-shirt and drawstring pants— and meant for a somewhat short eighteen year old. As it was now, Harry had the stature of a pre-teen boy; the shirt hung more similar to a dress, wet sleeves sticking to his forearms and bottom hem almost to his knees. With his shirt like that one could almost ignore the pants… Except the legs were obviously cuffed multiple times and still fell to the floor. And he was still barefoot.

The faded bloodstains down his front were a _spectacular_ touch, he was sure.

Harry swiped a lock of unruly hair out of his face with long, uncovered fingers, dark claws scraping lightly over the material of his blindfold. The bitter half-smile was back on his lips, despite his intention to keep a blank front to the ninja. His eyes flickered over to the interrogator; the man's strong jaw was set and his pupil-less eyes narrowed. Harry thought the blond might have been speculating just _how_ he'd gotten into his current condition, though no new questions were forthcoming.

"You need to take your shirt off, as well." The healer's voice held exactly the same tone as the first command. Harry put a point in her favor for not reacting to the first of what he realized were _disturbing_ revelations, on his part. Still, he was decidedly uncomfortable about removing his shirt, about baring his scars to these people.

He only did because he knew they wouldn't treat him if he didn't allow them this exam.

Harry stepped back so that he could lean against the bed for support, struggling even more than he had with the robe. He closed his eyes briefly when he managed to pull the material over his head —just in case it pulled his blindfold askew— and quickly dropped it to the floor to check his eye-covering, eyes snapping open vigilantly. Even if his magic could detect if they moved, Harry didn't feel quite right without _seeing_ them.

He saw immediately that the healer was disturbed, that more of the whites of her eyes were showing; her attention was fixed on a single spot in the center of his chest.

"Please sit," she requested to Harry somewhat dully. "Yamanaka-san, have one of our guards go get an emergency hydration bag." The blond immediately went to the door and exchanged low words with the ones standing guard; non-Bird ANBU quickly left for the requested item.

Harry was a bit confused about the healer's sudden urgency, so pointedly met her eyes through his blindfold and took a glace at her thoughts. She was most concerned that the _open wound_ over his heart wasn't bleeding, because –when one didn't factor in magic— that was a sign that meant he'd lost _far_ too much blood. Again, he shouldn't be moving, he should be close to death. Also on her mind but less pressing was the wound itself —_'she would recognize a kunai wound anywhere'_— because she couldn't fathom how it hadn't struck deep enough to kill him instantly.

Of course, she couldn't know that his magic was holding back any more blood from the unhealed wound. That his magic had dulled the velocity of the thrown weapon, or that his Pretty One used its body and life to further halt the blow.

Then she stepped closer and put her hand by the wound —_touching him!_— and a lot of things happened very quickly. Harry jerked back at the skin-on-skin contact, hands clenching spastically on the bed; his mind was already cutting ties and fleeing into the dull fog—

_You fool! _The whispering voice screamed. _Here is not safe! Now is not the time to be drifting!_

Oh, and didn't that point just curdle terribly in his gut; he wasn't safe _here_. Just how often had he dully drifted whilst at Voldemort's side? That was disquieting…

But, oh, 'safety' was relative. _Here_ he didn't know their motives —or motivations— and it could get him killed. 'Safety' was relative; at Voldemort's side there was no threat of outright _death_…

When the newest poisonous memory slithered across the fore of his mind Harry forced himself to push it aside— now was not the time to remember, but he couldn't let it lurk, hiding in the broken shadows of his mind. Now was _not the time_—!

Harry shook his head as the world re-sharpened around him; he found that he'd managed to get back to the space between bed and wall, with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Only that his back was pressed flat to the wall, his fists clenched tightly and shaking at his sides.

Yamanaka looked grim, as if he'd just had a suspicion confirmed: His eyes _scoured_ Harry's form, lingering longest on his bite-covered arms, on the scarred and barely-healed scratches littering his hips and sides. All so obvious against the pallor of his skin. If Harry hadn't been staring so intently, he would have missed the shinobi's minute wince.

Harry's lips pulled back into a snarl, exposing many long, sharp fangs. "Do. Not. _Touch me_." He could barely recognize his own voice, so quiet and dark, the hiss of his accent suddenly prominent with anger. In his head the little whispering voice was raging; what _right_ did they have to touch him? _None_, that's what! He could break their hands, rip out their eyes, _Avada_ them—!

A quick tap on the door and it opened, an avian mask appearing briefly —Harry hissed loudly, arms curling up and crossing over his emaciated torso defensively— only to disappear, healer-ANBU hesitating obviously before answering the knock. The errand-runner had just returned. The woman stepped away and the door closed firmly; she had a see-through, rectangular bag in her hands, clear liquid sloshing inside.

It was Yamanaka that stepped forward. Harry forcefully stilled his increasingly violent thoughts and snapped his head over, the weight of his full attention falling on the mind-reader: Healer glanced between the two of them and stepped aside, making herself almost a part of the wall for all she stood out. The man called his name and Harry made his lips cover his fangs, trying hard to repress the unreasonably strong rage swirling in his chest.

"Harry, please sit down." His voice was one of forced calm, of caution… Like he was speaking to a rabid animal. "There is another way to do this, but you're in no condition to be standing." 'To move.' The man's thoughts were branching with suspicions, but never dwelled far from the hollowness between bones too clearly seen. 'What reason was there for this punishment? Pain and a death sentence.'

Harry took a deep breath through is nose and nodded, taking painstaking care not to move too quickly —hurt himself— as he crawled onto the bed. It was the disquieting anger that kept him kneeling in the center, rather than his distrust of them: Just as he was sure he would have torn the Hokage's mind asunder, he was sure that he would lash out at them if they got too close yet. With distant eyes he noticed the medic-nin hooking the clear bag onto the metal stand in the corner.

As if his unseen, wandering gaze had been felt the dark-eyed healer turned to face him. Her thoughts reeked with undertones of pity, but she was looking at him as a medic, considering what could be wrong and what she could fix. What she would be _allowed_ to fix, with Harry being 'difficult'. She took an almost-wary step forward (or was this perhaps normal shinobi caution..?). Harry tilted his head very slowly to one side, the little voice hissing violently at the most recent dire offender. This exam needed to be done, though, and Harry preferred it be _her_ than Yamanaka conducting it.

"I can heal you without having to touch you." She was obviously talking about the diamond shaped hole between his ribs. Harry frowned in distaste but was intrigued by the prospect, so complied in shuffling closer to her, going so far as to let his legs dangle over the edge of the (rather stiff) bed. A quick glance at the silent Yamanaka showed him to be somewhat pleased; glad they hadn't had to force a treatment on him. Harry's shoulder's stiffened at the errant thought, repressing a slight shiver. _(Would they..?)_

The ANBU-in-hiding watched him for a moment, slowly moving closer into his personal space until she was just within arm's reach. With exaggerated slowness —_'no sudden movements'_— she held up her right hand, and her chakra suddenly… shifted. A green glow seeped out of her hand, wreathing it in a shimmering halo of chakra that felt like _her_, but at the same time different. His hands twitched slightly, nails digging into the bed as her glowing hand came closer, but was shortly distracted by keeping an iron grip on his magic as the _healing_ chakra touched his skin…

Only to fizzle away completely, the green chakra simply _gone_.

Harry saw the healer's eyebrows draw together in a frown as she brought the healing chakra out once more, stronger than before; it didn't disappear immediately this time, but her almost-troubled expression didn't leave. He knew why, probably better than she did, even if she _could_ feel anything with her chakra.

Harry couldn't stop it— it was all he could do to keep his magic from actively retaliating, fighting off the intruder. His magic was _eating_ her chakra.

Through her eyes he saw the puncture slowly knit shut, and knew her to be dissatisfied when the technique cut out again. The fresh skin left behind from her healing was almost as red as the open wound had been.

Harry rubbed at the tingling spot as the healer stepped back, comfortably out of his personal space. She said nothing to him about the flawed healing, the likelihood that the mark would scar —_(he didn't mind this scar; it marked Pretty's sacrifice)_— or that she would have Yamanaka make note of his apparent resistance to certain forms of chakra. It seemed such a big point in her mind, that 'resistance', but it wasn't something he had time enough to look for; it reeked of technical and theoretical knowledge.

"Are you hurt as severely anywhere else?" Yamanaka was watching him with keen eyes. Harry almost let the bewildered look slip onto his face; he was so exposed right now, where else would he hide a wound? And then he realized —_oh_, the man kept giving the scratches on his sides uncomfortable, lingering glances, and if _that_ looked bad…

The memory of intense, _burning_ pain nearly made him groan but he kept himself perfectly silent, though his fingers curled into tight fists. Harry jerked his head back and fourth, answering verbally a moment later when it was obvious the interrogator required elaboration. "… They healed anything life-threatening."

Yamanaka was prevented from asking any more questions by the healer taking charge. It was apparent without requiring legilimency that the woman was displeased, and when she spoke it was equally apparent that it was to the other shinobi and not Harry.

"At this time a full exam won't be possible. It would be dangerously unwise to attempt to draw any blood —" Harry tensed and almost snarled, the whispering voice screaming again: _They would not have his blood!_ "— or continue with an intensive physical. Even _if_ he is somehow still capable of standing." She shot Harry a disgruntled (distrusting) glance, turning startled and wary when she saw the beginnings of a frightful expression on Harry's face.

A wary silence fell –an awkward stillness – until the medic rolled the IV hook out of the corner and to the bedside. Familiar with the idea but having never experienced it before, Harry produced his right arm with little prompting. He was far more uncomfortable with the woman's glove-clad hands touching him than the needle she stuck into the crook of his elbow. It didn't hurt at all. The tape she used to hold the tube to his arm was more uncomfortable than the needle.

"How did you get in this condition?" Yamanaka's question drew Harry's attention away from the needle in his arm; the sight bothered him a little. He looked at the man, slightly incredulous: He damn well _knew_, he had more than enough _clues_. The voice —still harsh from anger— said the man was testing him again, like he had when the Hokage was there. That he would probably be able to tell if Harry were to lie about anything; that he would start with easy questions to then lead into more incriminating and revealing ones. _(They would ask about his powers…)_

It would be _very bad_ if he was caught in any kind of deception.

Harry was very good at lying, but he also knew when and _how_ to tell the truth. Twisted versions of the truth were to greatest lies. Taking into account the kinds of thoughts he'd been gleaning from these shinobi —the militarism, wars; suspicions of crimes against humanity— he could easily explain away his situation without revealing he was from another 'realm'. Without revealing anything of great importance; the only thing he _wanted_ to hide was the extent of his power, his magic.

It probably didn't hurt that he held such a strong resemblance to someone these people obviously knew, strange coincidence though it was. Hopefully it would keep them from looking for his origin _too_ deeply.

Still, a twisted, bitter smile curled his lips as he spoke. "I've been kept by… _enemies_ for a while." No specifics: Name no enemies, give no location, give no reason _why_ he was held captive… Not until they asked. No one wanted to volunteer… traumatic experiences. They would probably be less suspicious if he was vague in this situation, the state of his mind and all.

"How did you get away?" So no dancing around the topic; Harry stared intently at blue-green eyes. His suspicious thoughts practically shouted at him, from improbably wild to dejectedly pitying: _'Could he have been tortured into a suicide mission against Konoha, did I miss something in his mind?'_ then _'No, far too unstable for anything reliable —he didn't even attempt to disguise his Doujutsu as blindness— and physically incapable, harmless…' 'What is his no-chakra teleportation? Was it created, sealed? Were his "enemies" once allies, is that how they countered the technique so long, to do so much _damage?_' '… Were there more? Others with a technique that was not detectable, could not be blocked?'_

Harry's eyes flickered under his blindfold, considering the stolen thoughts and rushing to formulate a response. What could he say? What story would he weave, so that these shinobi would have no doubts but also not prod him too much for proof? What would be plausible to these chakra-wielders?

… He would have to lay misdirection upon twisted versions of the truth and hope it worked here as well as it had in the Wizarding World.

"The… enemy leader was killed." Harry started slowly, choosing his words with great care, frowning as if he were struggling to remember. "One of his… _minions_ saw fit to be rid of me." A burst of real anger and resentment spurred on his next words. "They were too much of a coward to finish me with their own hands —sent me _away_, instead." Harry would've loved to call Bellatrix a coward to her face. He also would've loved to make her _suffer_ before he'd killed her…

When he met pupil-less eyes again he was frustrated at the doubt permeating the thoughts, even after he noticed that the man didn't think he was _lying_, but that Harry himself didn't really _know_. That his mind was too scrambled and cracked, and he may have been telling the truth as he knew it, but it was _flawed_. And Inoichi didn't want to press for specifics for fear of further breaking his psyche, but _needed_ more answers.

_(What was that suspicion underlying all the interrogator's thoughts about Harry? An impression of terrible scenes of opened bodies and organs in jars and a room marked 'GENETIC MATERIAL' —?)_

"What do you mean, they sent you 'away'?" At least he'd still latched onto the part Harry hoped he would. Maybe he could assuage some of their cautious fear… though with the man's suspicions Harry thought it more likely that he would simply be deemed delusional.

"I was banished from my… home." He said this with deliberate certainty, turning his head to stare directly at Yamanaka's broad form. "We were hidden, secret —'no one enters, no one leaves'— and banishment was considered worse than death." Heh, doublespeak. He thought about both the Wizarding World and the Veil of Death as he spoke, taking belief from both. Most purebloods would've rather died than being stranded in the muggle world, and Harry remembered –shuddering— how he felt about the prospect of losing his magic. And the Veil… he'd looked into it. After Sirius. Some thought the Veil actually _destroyed_ souls…

In a way, Harry could believe his own words; in that point he doubted he was lying. 'Banished' seemed like the right word for his situation, as Harry seriously doubted there was a way back to his own realm.

It appeared that he'd lost himself in thought once more; he refocused when the two shinobi moved at once, finding himself staring at the threadbare fabric covering his knees. He looked up dully, oddly sluggish, and Yamanaka left with the statement that he would return the next day. The medic-nin informed him that she would be right back, but the guards would be right outside the door; Harry was sure that she meant it as a threat rather than a friendly reminder. He also didn't mention that he knew there was only _one _guard out there — bird-mask left with Yamanaka.

Then everything was quiet and still.

When the healer returned it was with a small bundle of folded white clothing, and she cautiously disconnected him from the needle to allow him to change, though he only did so when she went to wait outside the door. They fit better and were more comfortable than what he had —they weren't _wet_— but Harry was mildly disgruntled with the color. _White_. They matched the sickly tone of his skin almost perfectly.

She came back in without so much as a warning knock; Harry's eyes narrowed angrily as the voice snarled about the woman's imprudence — did she have no common courtesy? He didn't express any of his feelings though, allowing her to put the needle back in his arm.

It was only when she started collecting his wet clothes from the floor, when her hand touched his robe… Harry hissed at her and nearly took pleasure in her startled jump.

"That's mine, leave it." His voice sounded strange, low, almost amused yet colored with a threat. The look the unmasked ANBU gave him… her posture had changed into something coiled. _Battle-ready._ Harry scented the air and watched her recoil further – they must not have seen his tongue yet, how _fun_ – recognizing the taste in the air… hatred and fear, like friends to him. "Leave my robe; take the rest if you want."

And she did. She left his robe draped over the back of the chair, guardedly watching Harry watch her as he leaned back on the stiff bed. Something like a mantra was playing in her head, chanting over and _over_ that he couldn't be far removed from a snake demon. _That_ of course led Harry to wonder if there were demons wandering this world as well, and the people thinking him a 'snake demon' _actually_ thought one of his parents was a demon…

The voice cackled disturbingly.

Harry didn't sleep when the woman left. He didn't even try to meditate, spending the hours of silence watching the level of fluid in the IV bag deplete. After a while he entertained himself by manipulating the invisible flow of magic around him, though being careful not to influence it around the ANBU outside his door. It might mess with the man's chakra, and Harry was still unsure why or how his magic had eaten the medic's healing chakra.

Harry frowned in confusion when he noticed his magic was… _sticking_ when it came close to the area of his heart. He stopped manipulating the flow and felt the majority of it flood into his chest; for once he didn't know _what_ his magic was doing, though it seemed important –

The voice kindly reminded him that now was a good time to 'remember' the memory that had come forth earlier, before it caused any more damage by lurking. Harry shuddered –the last one hadn't been _that_ bad, but this one felt _wrong_– and grabbed the wayward memory—

_Long, cold fingers carded though his hair; Harry kept perfectly still, slumped against the arm of the Dark Lord's throne. He felt a vague wave of anger and revulsion, despair lurking in the undertow – but it was hazy, and he was a detached as he could be while still aware of his surroundings. Today was a meeting day, and he had to be aware in case the reports could tell him anything of the Light's movements._

_(Not his friends, not **his** 'side' of this war. He had no side – they lost whatever rights they had to him when they didn't **rescue him**..!)_

_The fingers trailed down his cheek and caught his jaw in a vice-grip, tilting his head up and back, forcing emerald eyes to meet snake-slit red. (Curious, though; his glasses had long ago been lost, how could he see..?) Voldemort's thin, noseless face was inches from his own; inhuman eyes searched his for **something**. He did this often, but apparently found something that pleased him this time – sharp, yellow teeth were bared in a lipless smile._

_"There you are, Harry," He crooned quietly in the snake language. Harry showed no reaction to his words –never did– though he knew the Dark Lord was aware he could speak Parseltongue as well. The fingers tightened their hold on his jaw, sharp nails biting into skin. "Don't be like that, Harry. I know you're in there…" the snake-man looked amused, leaning even closer and breathing his next words across Harry's face. "Gathering information, loyal little Gryffindor?"_

_Harry stared blankly at the red eyes until the first telltale _crack!_ Of apparation broke the silence. Voldemort relinquished his grip and sat back on his throne properly as more of his followers arrived, thin fingers again tugging on strands of Harry's hair. Harry allowed his eyes to slowly rove over the white-masked faces of the gathering – found nothing interesting, nothing different from any other meeting._

_They each came forward to report. Most were merely updates from plans already in action: McNair was covertly casting Imperius on people within the Ministry; Malfoy Sr. was again in good standing and was playing interim Minister –to be permanent, soon enough– after Scrimgeour's assassination the week previous. There was a minor, successful breakout of supporters from Azkaban. A coven on vampires wishing to ally with the Dark Lord Voldemort…_

_Lastly came Snape –spy on the Light– with an audible sneer; the Order of the Phoenix's, nay, the entire Light side's, morale was falling over Potter's prolonged absence. Some were starting to whisper that the Boy-Who-Lived was finally dead._

_Voldemort laughed his cruel, high laugh. Harry felt only a strange, twisting bitterness; of **only** he was dead._

_The minions were dismissed –some disapparating, some leaving through the door to other parts of the base– and the room was left silent and dark. The single large fireplace, fire dying, cast dark shadows._

_The cold hand grabbed his jaw again, green eyes met red. Harry unraveled the last tenuous ties on his mind, allowing it to drift to the dull void once more; he didn't want to be here anymore, there was nothing to learn. Nails dug into his face, deep and hard enough to draw blood._

_"Now, now," Voldemort hissed, tilting Harry's head painfully, straining his neck. "Don't you leave yet, Harry." Harry paid him no mind, eyes drooping as his mind continued its far retreat. The snake-man made a noise of dissatisfaction and drew the light colored stick that was his yew and phoenix feather wand._

_He tapped the steel manacles around Harry's wrists, sticking them painfully to the floor on either side of his outstretched legs. The wand moved again, and there were suddenly two glass vials floating before his eyes. Harry blinked slowly, but his mind was still far off –he could see, but only that; understanding and emotion went with his mind._

_Voldemort was hissing again, even as he opened Harry's unresisting mouth and poured the first potion down his throat. "It doesn't matter, Harry. Not much… it would have been nice to see the last of your hope die in those pretty eyes, though." Oh. He was always gloating –Harry let himself drift farther away, having drawn himself closer when the Dark Lord spoke._

_Slit, red eyes stared pensively at the second vial before that, too, was poured down Harry's throat. Harry gagged reflexively at the unknown potion's foul taste. He hunched over slightly at the burning it started in his stomach, immediately breaking out in a cold sweat._

_"I know more than you think I do, Harry." He stated, and the red eyes stared at him with a strange intensity. "Prophecies are tricky things, you know. I admit falling for their trap, blinding myself by taking it literally… But you know, they rarely ever work out in the most literal way, do they?" Voldemort's words triggered the thin string anchoring his mind to start pulling him back, and Harry found dread creeping its way in._

_"**And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…**"_

_A shiver crawled down Harry's spine –how did Voldemort find out the rest of the Prophecy? … Why was he alive, then? His mind was as far from dull as it could be, and he got a sudden sinking feeling in his gut, one that had nothing to do with the strange potion he'd been forced to ingest._

_Harry swallowed visibly and focused, turned his eyes to look into the inhumanly gleeful face of the Dark Lord._

_"You are wondering why you are alive." A simple statement from a viciously grinning mouth. "I just told you, Harry –" Voldemort purred his name chidingly, and it made Harry sick. "—that prophecies don't have to be taken **literally**." The bad, sick feeling multiplied tenfold as the snake-man glided off his throne to stand over him._

_"Your **death** won't have to be literal, though it may as well be. I **am** killing you, in a way." The Dark Lord looked positively demonic, crimson eyes gleaming, flickering firelight casting dark shadows in the hollows of his face. "It would have been such a… terrible waste, otherwise." His words were so soft, murmured into the shadows of the room. Harry shuddered at the tone: This was strange, an unknown –Harry didn't like this, couldn't predict how this situation could end anymore. It was **bad**. _

_"You took the Slytherin blood from me," Voldemort continued after a dreadfully agonizing moment, the odd look in his eyes again. "You have great power –greater potential – and are much too useful to have really killed you…" He leaned down and lifted Harry's chin with a single finger; Harry was listening in wide-eyed horror. "To have such a powerful Animagus form, and so young." Harry jolted in shock –**How had he known?**_

_Voldemort **smirked** at him. "I knew the moment you were placed in that cell. My wards alerted me." Harry gritted his teeth (Legilimency? Oh gods, **why** was he so incapable of Occlumency..?) "Those cuffs will not allow your transformation –don't try." Harry stopped himself from glaring and instead blinked, blanking the tension from his body and slumping back against the throne as far as his immobile arms allowed._

_The Dark Lord raised a spidery hand to touch the sharp point of Harry's emaciated cheek, and the odd look in his eyes grew stronger when he continued. What **was** that?_

_"I am killing anything that was Harry Potter, the Chosen One of Prophecy," a finger moved to where he knew his lightning bolt scar to be. (Whywhywhy wasn't it **burning**? No pain nopainnopain?) "I am making you into someone –" The lipless mouth twitched in what Harry somehow knew to be humor. "—some**thing** else."_

_Voldemort leaned in closer, eyes fixed on his finger as it ran over Harry's forehead again, Harry barely daring to breathe. "Your scar is already fading…" Harry couldn't still the involuntary jerk at the whispered words, barely acknowledging the burning pain in his arms at the movement, or the fact that his throat felt drier than the desert. What..?_

_"We are more **similar** –" there was an odd, fascinated and **amused** emphasis on that word "—than even I had known, Harry." Voldemort hissed, kneeling before Harry's frozen form, bringing his angular, serpentine face close to his ear. "When I am done, Harry Potter will be dead, and what remains…" he trailed off and chuckled darkly._

_"Well, we'll just have to see, won't we?" He pulled back, eyes burning through the ever-growing darkness of the room._

_Voldemort turned thoughtful again, tapping his wand on this wrist a few times before turning speculative eyes to Harry's horrified own. He smiled a shark's smile and sliced his pale wrist open with the tip of his wand, collecting the blood (Nonono, not blood, blood is not black, and Voldemort bled **black**..!) in one of the discarded vials._

_Harry couldn't even put up a token resistance as the Dark Lord poured the blood/not-blood down his shock-paralyzed throat –it sizzled its way down to his stomach like acid and his body exploded in **agony**._

_The pain kept him quiet, incapable of more than twitching and issuing pitiful whimpers from deep in his chest; his throat strained but his jaws remained locked shut by muscles and tendons pulled taut to the breaking. Harry met red eyes blindly; this would kill him, the pain would destroy him, he could feel it –he **wanted** death, for no other reason than to escape the never-ending **pain**..!_

_Voldemort laughed, cruel and high and **amused**._

_"You're a survivor, Harry! No, you don't want death –you're too stubborn to die..!"—_

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath as the last clinging remnants of the memory fell away. He realized that he was shaking –trembling – thought it was a toss up as to what caused it; the contents of the memory of from the ghost of the pain he could still feel. That… was _bad_.

He had been right, though… What he guessed when he noticed the curse scar missing. Voldemort had indeed tried to circumvent the literal interpretation of the Prophecy. He'd tried to _figuratively_ 'kill' Harry. He'd still ended up dying by Harry's hands, though –Harry choked out bitter, somewhat hysterical laughter.

This memory brought up as many questions as it answered; Harry took a deep breath and closed too-dry eyes. He needed to _think_ instead of freaking out. Not yet. He exhaled, and was somewhat calmer, pushing away the turmoil the memory caused so that he could puzzle out the contents. Okay. So Voldemort had seemed stuck on how similar they were… it didn't seem like he was talking about their childhoods, either.

Harry toiled for a moment before the idea of their connection suddenly sprang to mind, and somehow –as soon as he recognized it as a possibility – he knew it to be the reason. He frowned and concentrated; begin at the beginning. Voldemort came after him when he was only a baby and cast the Killing Curse –it rebounded and tore the Dark Lord's spirit from his body, and a connection was made between the two of them. The Dark Lord marked Harry his equal; Voldemort _survived_ and Harry took a measure of his power. And apparently, his heritage. The Slyterin blood.

At the end of Harry's fourth year Voldemort performed a ritual to regain a body, using Harry's blood in part. Harry possessed Voldemort's power, and _he_ had Harry's blood; it strengthened their connection, made them more _similar_.

Then… that memory. Voldemort fed him an unknown potion and then –he swallowed reflexively – his own blood. Post ritual.

Harry looked at his hands –_pale, long fingered hands_ – clenched atop the blanket he was under, and felt instantly ill. He had already been changing before he went through the Veil, he was sure; Voldemort had been making him into someone else… _more_ similar. Was that why the people in the Ministry Atrium had looked so horrified? Not because he was still alive, or even his deplorable condition, but because he looked more like Voldemort than Harry Potter? That the Dark Lord _had_ killed Harry Potter and replaced him with some blood-magic _spawn_ instead?

Harry shook his head and hissed lowly. _No_. None of that mattered now, and it would do him no good to worry over it. So screw what those people thought, and screw Voldemort, too. Instead of being smart and just AK-ing him, the snake-man was stupid, and got killed for it. But Harry Potter was dead now.

Here, he was Harry. Just Harry. Just what he'd always wanted.

Harry could weather this. He would remember everything –no matter how long it took – and he would accept what had happened. If he found out Voldemort had fucked him up in some other way, well, he would deal with it. This was him now –a new identity would be good for this new world…

Harry sighed. If only it would be as easy actually _living_ those resolutions as it was thinking them. He brought a hand up to rub his eyes through his blindfold, noticing that (for some reason) the previously unhealed scratches along his brow were gone. He had healed. Well. At least something was going right…

He was tired. He still didn't sleep, nor did he meditate. Voldemort's words were still echoing through his thoughts; Harry was a survivor, too stubborn to die. And Harry knew the snake-man was right. Even when he was a child; too stubborn to succumb to death by starvation, by neglect. Too stubborn to die by Quirrel's hand, or by basilisk bite, or by horde of dementors. Not the Triwizard Tournament, and not even when he was Possessed in fifth year, when Voldemort still wanted him dead –_literally_. Not even in eight months of torture, though that was the closest he'd come.

Hell, not even the Veil of Death could kill him –he _was_ too stubborn to die!

Harry started laughing. It was low at first –there was true humor in it –and then he realized the _Voldemort_, for all his fear of death and stubbornness for surviving had still _died_, and Harry was _still alive_. And he kept laughing, louder and somewhat hysterical, because Voldemort had done _something_ to ensure his survival –his immortality – and still _died_, and Harry had done no such thing and was _still alive_ and that was just _not right_..!

Something broke. Something in him shifted. And Harry kept laughing, and his chest _ached_ like something was eating his heart, but it was all over soon enough. And his laughter was higher, more hysterical –echoing Voldemort's high laugh ringing though his head – because of _course_ he had been the Boy-Who-_Survived_, as he had never _lived_ before.

As his laughter died a slow death and his magic felt presences moving quickly in his direction, Harry wondered if being so obviously crazy would lead him to live a more enjoyable life.

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**A/N:** Not as angst heavy as it could have been, but that's rather the point, you know? There's still that detachment Harry's got to deal with... :3

So how'd you like it? Something you like; something you didn't? I understand that Harry's perspective can be a bit... odd, especially because he doesn't really notice things that I'm sure you'd really like to know~ How about leaving me a reveiw and telling me what you felt about this chapter? And maybe checking out the **Poll on my Author's profile**?


	10. Chapter 8: Resolve'd

**A/N:** Seriously guys, please poke me with a sharp stick if it ever takes this long again -.- I am a certified Master Procrastinator, and this was put off for far too long. The good news, for those of you not following my rambling little profile notes, is that I have been writing _a lot_, and the next fifteen or so chapters are done :3 Just not typed. Anyway, enjoy!

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Chapter 8; Resolve'd

Time passed, as it was wont to do, though Harry found himself hard-pressed to actually _track_ how many days he'd spent in Konoha's secure hospital wing. All he was sure of was that it had been long enough for a routine to develop, and the two people -the _only_ people, really- he had contact with barely thought twice of Harry's ..._quirks_, anymore. He knew, though, that the routine started the day he realized the lengths Voldemort had gone to circumvent the literal Prophecy, when the ANBU/medic-nin rushed into the room as he laughed.

She'd stopped at finding him sitting upright on the uncomfortable hospital bed, knees tucked to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them, smothering high giggles and paying no mind to his sluggishly bleeding arm. It was odd. For all that he'd scared her earlier, she had simply waited until he'd calmed to tired lucidity, sighed, and re-attached the needle he'd torn loose. She made him swallow a handful of vitamins, promised to return with some broth for him to 'eat', and just _left_: No one ever asked him why he had been laughing in the first place. Not even Inoichi.

The healer rarely ever talked to him, though she was the one Harry saw the most. Her thoughts -though somehow disciplined- never rid themselves of a lingering nervousness, so woefully close to fear. She had assumptions, unproven as Harry successfully resisted all attempts to have his blood drawn, that he was the spawn of a snake demon and that man, 'Orochimaru'. Until someone said something aloud, however, Harry couldn't ask any questions, though he _dearly_ wanted to know...

Inoichi -whom Harry found himself becoming reluctantly tolerant of- always had questions for him, a whole variety of questions, some of which he couldn't understand _why_ they were asked...until the voice whispered that they were feeling out his temperament. In the end, Harry shrugged, giggled -which caused Inoichi to flinch minutely, _every time_- and 'answered' the questions as he saw fit, building himself a story of half-truths and deflections, but never _lies_.

Of all the things that could have given Harry pause, he only hesitated when they asked him how old he was. He should be about eighteen, but... _this_ body didn't look anywhere near that old. Explaining that would be... troublesome, to say the least. And he didn't really _feel_ eighteen, either; most of the time he felt so very _old_, like he had existed forever... and then sometimes it was like he'd just been born, and everything was bright and new and _strange_. But he'd decided already that age didn't matter so much anymore -why should it matter when he could barely keep track of the days?- and finally told them that he didn't _know_ his age.

He didn't argue when the healer had given him a very long look -and another near-useless application of healing chakra- and said he was about twelve years old. _(That was okay; he'd slain the Basilisk at twelve years...)_

More questions were asked of Harry's 'home country', and all of these were answered with very real bitterness. He reiterated that it was _hidden_ -had never been marked on a map, even- and he _couldn't_ get back even if he wanted to. Which he didn't. He couldn't if he _tried_, which he _wouldn't_. There were factions within the country, he told Inoichi, which warred often; the latest civil war had lasted _decades_. The man listened, but in his mind, he _doubted_.

That topic eventually led to _why_, exactly, he had been in 'enemy hands' in the first place.

Harry had been a prisoner of war. He admitted to himself that it had never quite sunk in, the reality of the situation he had been in -_(because wasn't magic supposed to mean everything was _better_? Wasn't the cruelty of humanity supposed to be rid by the wonder of magic..? )_- before he had to say it aloud. He decided, in the interests of keeping himself looking relatively harmless, to hedge around anything that suggested he had been a participant in the fighting. After all, these shinobi started their training as children, so his apparent youth wasn't enough of a reassurance...

In the flattest voice he could muster _(if he listened to himself he shivered; he could never have made himself sound so dead before...)_, Harry told Inoichi that he had been used, made an example of to lower morale of the other side; the side his parents had been prominent figureheads of before they had been killed... and did he _have_ to keep talking about this..? So the topic was dropped to preserve his lucidity, and rarely mentioned again.

Inoichi always had something else to ask about, anyway.

It was a chore to deal with the blond interrogator, and oftentimes Harry found himself caught between amused and angry at the thoughts he compulsively read from the man. When Harry had quickly taken to drawing the blinds and covering the window with his robe -_(something about the light unsettled him, but it was just another one of those things that he pushed to the back of his mind and tried to ignore)_- and constantly persisted in turning off the overhead light, Inoichi had been bemused; it turned to wary alarm when Harry hissed at him for turning on the light. There was pity whenever he entered and found Harry sitting silently in his barricaded corner, and the one time Harry succumbed to sleep and woke from a screaming nightmare had been worse: On those days, Harry refused to talk to the blond -he couldn't stand the hidden, pitying looks- but that only led the interrogator to assume it was a 'bad day'...

It was tiresome, but it _had_ to be better than having the village as an enemy... _(Hopefully... maybe...)_

Harry slid smoothly out of his dozing meditation, absentmindedly peeling the tape off his arm and removing the needle. _That_ was part of the routine, too. The healer always became quietly frustrated when he removed it -_she had told him off for it once, in the beginning, but he had just _smiled_ at her, and she never did again..._- but Harry never paid her any mind. Whatever substance it was coming in with the IV was starting to feel _weird_ to him, and it required constant attention to prevent his magic from rejecting the needle; he _had_ to remove the needle, or run the risk of his magic slipping his control and destroying it.

He suspected that it was a sign that he was physically recovering _(or that they had started to poison him...)_, that the steady regimen of IVs and vitamins was doing some good. He was still extraordinarily weak, and hadn't gained much -if any- weight yet (according to the medic), but his body was no longer eating itself to keep him alive. His magic no longer had to block out his pain. It no longer hurt him to move... not as much. For the first time in a long time, Harry had the _desire_ to move.

With barely a whisper of noise, Harry slipped out from under the covers and off the bed, silently padding over to the covered window. It was quite dark in his room; enough that it often took Inoichi half a minute to adjust enough to contemplate coming close enough to begin his usual round of questions, the casual, ongoing interrogation. For all the man liked to appear calm, he was one of the most wary; he wanted to _see _Harry for signs that he had pressed too far, that something was wrong and he could _get away_.

He lifted the corner of his hanging robe -dazzled momentarily by the _brightbrightbright_ light- just long enough to see the many green trees outside and ascertain it was rather close to noontime, and Inoichi was running late today, wasn't he...

Harry sighed and moved away from the window, standing silently in the darkness _(safe, comforting, nonono, wasn't the darkness cold and bad?)_, trying not to let himself fall into the dark hole he felt stirring in the back of his head. There was another reason he had covered that window...

Unfortunately, his new desire to move made him unable to simply sit quietly in bed anymore. Even being in the room, now, was making him anxious. Anxious was bad. Anxious was making an uneasy feeling rise inside him -a feeling that would keep building until he reached critical mass, and _something_ exploded. Probably the unfortunate ANBU-shinobi that was always outside his door.

The thought of the masked ninja exploding into bloody chunks made him giggle -quickly muffled by his hand- and it was only because he didn't feel like leaving Konoha _(they're not at three strikes, yet...)_ that he didn't allow himself to entertain more serious thoughts about allowing it to happen.

Hm. Maybe he could try to ask Inoichi if he could be allowed outside. If that failed, he could always push aside his revulsion and take advantage of the pity the mind-reader constantly aimed at him, and mention that this room was starting to feel more and more like his cell, and could he _please_ just go outside? The roof, even!

Without moving from his place before the blocked window, he felt the guard change, the less familiar presence being relieved by Bird mask. Harry was tempted to stick his head out the door and _stare_ at the man, as he knew that _this_ shinobi was the one most bothered by his appearance, and Harry, frankly, found that funny as hell. A bare, silent second was all it took for the gnawing boredom to crawl up his spine, and Harry drifted towards the door.

The hallway was artificially bright, so for a long time Harry stood just inside his room with the door barely open, letting his eyes adjust. Bird-mask didn't move from his spot just a few feet away, but Harry felt the eyes on him, even if he was unable to see them through the dark holes of the white mask. _(Was it shinobi irony, that the mask be so cute when the man smelled like so much old blood?)_ When he was satisfied that he could see, and his eyes stopped stinging, Harry stepped out and sat on the floor, staring at the shinobi.

The silence was somehow easier to bear when he knew his mere presence could make someone _squirm_.

He was breaking the almost-comfortable routine by doing this, and he could _smellfeeltaste_ that it was putting Bird-mask on edge. Harry only ever left his room to shower, and only then when they prompted him to _(it was probably a kindness to allow him that much freedom, when they so obviously distrusted him)_, and even that had bothered them for a while until Harry got curious enough to steal the thoughts from Healer. He hadn't realized... it had been so long... There was more that had changed, internally, and when he felt his magic deeply enough he _knew_: His magic was supporting most of what his body should be doing naturally, but instead it was breaking down _everything_ into energy, to the point that there _was_ no waste. It was disturbing, and he didn't look forward to ever saying that, _no_, he wasn't dying, his organs weren't failing... he just didn't use the bathroom anymore. _(All things did, though, so what did that make him..?)_

Harry scented the air, still staring unwaveringly at his guard, and wondered when the smell of unease had become so familiar to him.

He drew his knees to his chest and tipped back to lean against the door, tilting his head to get a new angle in which to study the shinobi. There was a swirly sort of tattoo high on his left arm that Harry hadn't noticed before. Still, the man remained resolutely silent. Harry slowly raised a thumb to his mouth and dragged the nail across his teeth, creating a quiet, ominous _clickclickclick_ in the otherwise silent hallway. This time the ninja reacted; a barely perceptible twitch developed in the fingers of his right hand, a sign Harry had learned to recognize as the restrained reflex to reach for a weapon.

Harry kept on, hidden eyes keenly focused, smiling with bared teeth as he continued to click his nail along his fangs. His nails weren't really nails anymore; he finally discovered why they had looked so strange to him before. Each of his fingers now ended in a single, strange, basilisk scale, ridged but of an unidentifiable dark color. They had annoyed him at first, being slightly longer than he liked to have his nails, and thus prone to catching on his blanket, but he resigned himself to them and was glad that they didn't appear to be growing.

"Birdy, birdy, birdy," Harry crooned quietly, thumbnail resting against his bottom lip, head tilting farther to the side. His sibilant accent had barely diminished even as his vocabulary expanded, and it colored the playful words sinister. Bird-mask stilled completely, and Harry caught a string of thoughts amounting to 'Creepy little fucker...'.

Oddly enough, the thoughts held none of the vindictiveness he'd expected, or even the pity he had peevishly anticipated. Just a statement of fact -an observation- only slightly colored by the suspicion his appearance aroused. It was refreshing to find such a relatively unbiased opinion, as Harry _knew_ he was a 'creepy little fucker'.

He was still bored, though.

Harry quietly informed the ANBU of that, and fully felt the weight of the incredulous stare leveled at him; it confused Harry until he took another _look_ and caught the man thinking he'd just been subject to some unfocused psychological warfare. A moment was all it took for Harry to realize that that was _exactly_ what he had been doing -_trying_ to do- and it amused him to no ends. If psychological warfare resulted from boredom, he could only speculate what fury -or even _happiness_- would cause him to do...

Harry tilted his head back, silently amending his previous thought, as he realized he was pretty sure he _did_ know.

It was probably a good thing that the ninja were only focusing on improving his physical health, and hadn't seriously breeched the subject of his mental health, or they would probably have been watching him more closely than they were. Then _they_ might have known, too...

He rested a fingertip gingerly between his sharp teeth, still thoughtful and less bored, but peripherally aware of the somewhat tense ANBU just feet away. Again, his thoughts turned back to what he'd been stuck on for almost the entire time he'd dwelled in the hospital room, and he couldn't help but wonder, for how much Inoichi pondered it... Just how sane was he, really? It was running him in conflicting circles, and with nothing to distract him, Harry just couldn't seem to push it aside like everything else.

He wasn't even _concerned_, just mildly curious, but if he couldn't stop thinking about it than it wouldn't matter anymore because it would _drive him insane!_

So again he was weighing the factors of his sanity, stepping back to look in impartially (which was almost disturbingly easy to do; one shouldn't be able to separate themselves, so.). First, the pros: Why he was sane. He was bothering to ask himself? Hadn't he heard, so long ago, that the insane never _worry_ that they're insane? He wasn't worried so much as mildly curious, but that still had to count for something... So that wasn't such a great point...

A better one then. Harry was still more than capable of making rational decisions, such as the ones to learn the language and stick around to take advantage of a hospital to recover in. It was smart and beneficial... and common sense, which those lacking sanity didn't have much of, or so he'd heard. He also didn't make it a habit of wandering around and killing people for no particular reason, though it was well within his ability to do so; he didn't _want_ to. Those were good points for proof he was sane... _(Sane enough...)_

Cons, then; Why he could maybe, possibly be insane.

...

And there it was again, that part of him that kept saying _'this is the most sane you've been in a long time'_. It always distracted him, because the _feeling_ with it was that he hadn't been sane for years -_decades_- in the literal sense of time. Harry was _sure_ that he'd been pretty okay sanity-wise before sixth year when his insomnia started up. (The sleep deprivation was a calculated risk; thankfully he had been fully able to retain what he learned, and the hallucinations and fits of mild psychosis had stopped after the first month or so...). That, and he was only _eighteen_, and he hadn't been _alive_ long enough for him to have been insane for decade_s_.

_Broken before, whole now -but different. Better. Broken begets insanity..._ He twitched, but couldn't force himself to ignore the voice.

Harry lolled his head back and forth against the door, chuckling quietly. Suppose that was another reason against his sanity, then; he believed the feeling more than he could intellectually call it impossible. And then there was a voice in his head that he _listened _to, _responded_ to, sometimes.

Harry chuckled again, but quickly cut it off when he felt himself slipping closer to the hysterical laughter again. Well, _fuck_. That carried too much weight to ignore... maybe it was a functional kind of insanity then? Sometimes he regretted his complete abandonment of all things muggle; _they_ actually devoted some time doing research on mental disorder. Hell, in the Wizarding World, nobody cared if you went insane so long as you didn't go about killing people! There were more stories bartered around the Gryffindor common room about batty relatives than there were stars in the sky!

Harry removed his finger from his mouth, frowning slightly: Maybe it had something to do with magic in the first place. It wasn't the most outlandish thing he could think of; magic-users had the ability to make the impossible into something commonplace, and something like that really _couldn't_ be without consequences. If that was the case, it really said something about the more magically talented... Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Voldemort... himself. Hell. Putting it like that, he really _had_ to be insane, didn't he?

The voice was conspicuously silent, and Harry snorted.

It was a pointless thing to dwell on, really, and it annoyed him that he _was_ stuck thinking about it all the time. If he was sane, well, that was all well and good. And if he wasn't, he had no _real_ way of knowing, as any 'insane' actions wouldn't _seem_ unusual to him. It was _pointless_.

It. Was. _Pointless!_

And he was fucking tired of being stuck on the same train of thought!

Harry snarled (the ANBU startled) and every muscle in his body tensed in an effort to resist the overwhelming urge to just _bite something_ -_Bite an arm, add another pretty crescent to all the rest. Better, bite the ninja! Oh, yesss, pump him full of venom, make him __**writhe**__!_ Something pulled, tightened, in the back of his mouth, and suddenly bitter, hot _something_ was flowing over his tongue.

Venom. It was venom. _His_ venom.

Just as quickly as he tensed, Harry relaxed again, slumping back against the door. With half his attention on the cautiously wary shinobi, he casually swiped a finger over his lips, allowing the tiniest bit of venom to seep out of his mouth before swallowing the rest. His venom was mostly clear; if his skin wasn't so _lacking_ in color, he wouldn't have been able to detect the slightest of a yellow-green sheen. It looked like _spit_. He snorted softly, licking the remnants off his finger, and tilting his head back to give full attention to his guard. Even if he were to read the man's mind, there was no way of knowing just how much of that had simply been passed off as just another 'quirk'.

"I'm still bored, Birdy," he said quietly "Can you take me outside?" Harry was so _sure_ that his anxiety would diminish if he could just get a breath of fresh air. He knew, intellectually, that this room _was not_ that dark little cell, but it was starting to feel the same -he was still a prisoner, there. The only difference now was that he could manage escape on his own this time... he'd just rather give them a chance before leaving such a beneficial situation.

For the first time since he was escorted here, Harry heard the voice of the Bird-masked ANBU. "You have to ask Yamanaka-san." Oh? Did that mean that Inoichi was the one with say over him? Or did it just have to go through the mind-reader, and _then_ to the Hokage?

Harry sighed and reentered his room, leaving the door a crack open as he drifted back to sit on the bed, dodging around the puddle his detached IV was making on the floor. He folded himself up in the center of the bed, blanket bundled around him and over his head, and sat in the quiet darkness with only the hissing, whispering voice in his head for company.

As it turned out, he didn't get to go outside that day. When asked, Inoichi had become markedly suspicious, and it wasn't until Harry started to mutter under his breath about his _cell_ that the interrogator relaxed again. In the end, Harry got a vague _"I'll see what Hokage-sama says."_ and more questions about the aforementioned cell.

The next day -_(it was probably the next day...)_- found Harry lying in bed once more, propped up against the headboard and slowly shredding the edge of the blanket ragged with his claws. One. Thread. At. A. Time. Healer had finally gotten the message and had ceased her attempts at sticking him with another needle, so in place of the IV hook was a glass of water on the bedside table. He was almost surprised they'd given him an actual _glass_ cup, as they had been excessively paranoid about leaving anything remotely dangerous in the room with him. Whether it was to keep him from suicide or otherwise, he hadn't yet determined.

Harry ignored Inoichi's entrance (as he did most every time) and only twitched a little in annoyance when the man pulled back the hanging robe enough to dimly light the room out of its near pitch blackness. He then took the chair near the foot of the bed and patiently waited for Harry to acknowledge him. As usual.

Harry dropped the blanket onto his lap, but as he did so his attention caught again on the almost-red scars covering his arms; he found his fingers tracing the marks with a strange sort of fascination. Jagged and vivid, but they should have been _more_ than mere indents in his skin that they were... They would have been so much worse had magic not healed the damage, but they could have been healed _perfectly_ that way, with no sign that it had ever happened... Harry ran a fingertip over a tight cluster of bites at his wrist, enthralled by the strange smoothness inside each one... like a burn, almost...

Inoichi was watching him, leant forward in the stiff little chair, and asked him about the marks on his arms. Harry took a quick glance at the sharp green eyes, and got a mind full of wary suspicions: They looked like they were the result of some strange torture, and the only thing that kept him from suspecting attempted suicide was the fact that they were _all over_ his arms, and not just at the wrists. He was also perplexed, as he _knew_ them to be bite marks, but they had healed... wrong. It was just... _wrong_. No signs of infection (the mouth was a very dirty place, after all), and the scars had a strange consistency, unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

Harry didn't begrudge the man for thinking his thoughts -if he was in the interrogator's position, he wouldn't know _what_ to think- but it made him want to _tell_ the shinobi. Talk about his time in the Dark, perceived weakness be damned (and really, they had already seen the _results_, so why not tell the cause?).

Harry stretched his thin arms out, twisting them to show the extent of the bites; both arms, practically covered from wrist to shoulder -_(how had he managed to bite the back of his elbow..?)_- with many overlapping, but his hands were curiously unscathed. "I think I did this sometime in the beginning, Inoichi -" Harry never bothered with attaching honorifics, and it made the shinobi uncomfortable of his undue familiarity, but he'd never corrected him yet. "- because when they first captured me they put me in a black little hole. When they took me out, I couldn't walk anymore, but I could still pace when I did this..."

Harry dropped his arms back into his lap, head tilting to one side. It felt... almost _good_ to say it aloud, to have someone listen. "The cell was very small. Very dark. Very... _cold_." He frowned and raised his head enough that the blond could tell Harry was looking at him. "When you broke open the shadows, doing this was one of the first things I remembered." The shiver that ran down his spine as he recalled what _else_ was let loose was minute, but Inoichi saw it all the same.

When Harry continued, his voice was a bit more listless, and he traced a particularly jagged mark on his right arm. Somehow, out of all of them, he knew _that_ was the initial bite. "I think it was the cold, more than anything. The silence was worse that I though it would be." His tone turned rueful; he had lived in a cupboard for ten years, and silence was an old friend, but it still got to him in the end... "I didn't think I would mind the silence so much, but in the end it was the cold. I was too cold to really feel any pain... And blood stays warm for a while, you know?"

Harry _saw_ that, yes, he _did_ know. The blond mind-reader was quiet for a moment, watching him carefully, _assessing_. "How is it that you didn't bleed out?"

Harry couldn't tell if the smile that formed on his own lips was bitter or amused, shying away from the _dark_ in his head that wanted to _hurt_ the shinobi for asking. "I am too stubborn to die." The _horribly, wonderfully_ ironic statement slipped out before he could think to stop it, and then he sighed and glanced at the mostly obscured window. "I still do not remember much. I assume they found me before I could bleed out, and healed me... I doubt I will remember everything." Only the worst of what happened, he was sure.

Inoichi eyed him levelly for another long moment before conceding with a slow nod, satisfied that what Harry said was _true enough_. In the end, they were strangers to one another, and there was _nothing_ the man could say to him. Not when Harry knew it was the interrogator's job to milk him of all the information he could, about everything. It was alright, though, because Harry would never truly care what the man thought: Inoichi was still under the annoying (yet beneficial) assumption that Harry himself didn't know the real truth, and thus was passing false information.

_There!_ A new piece of information as the interrogator silently lamented the likelihood of Harry's parentage: The uncanny resemblance to a young Orochimaru, and the excess of enemies that man had - most of whom would _gladly_ carry out a grudge on someone who appeared to be even _distantly_ related to him. And Harry...

Finally, _finally_, Harry got the barest of glimpses of the person who he was supposed to resemble, the man called Orochimaru. Oh, was it uncanny, was it _eerie_, how very right they were... What kind of strange coincidence could have led to this..?

Harry smothered a slightly hysterical giggle at the thought of ever meeting him face to face.

He startled slightly when Inoichi spoke again. "Hokage-sama has decided to allow you some time outside of the hospital, provided you can follow a set of conditions." The man trailed off, eyes searching his face for some acknowledgement; Harry inclined his head, then tilted it in silent curiosity. 'Conditions?'. "I am the only person who will ever take you anywhere, but ANBU may bring you back..."

There weren't really that many conditions after all, but that was probably because they still didn't expect him to _remember_ all that much, and Harry wasn't inclined to tell them otherwise. _(Better to be underestimated...)_. What wasn't common sense were mostly things that Harry wouldn't consider doing anyway; why would he want to talk to the little-chakra civilians that were bound to be around? Common sense, like if he tried to lose his escort _(babysitter...)_ they would treat him like an enemy. It would be Inoichi's choice as to how long he was allowed outside; if force had to be used to bring him back, chances of being let out again became quite scarce...

Harry thought the last rule was rather stupid. They _knew_ that he could escape from their chakra seals; if Harry wanted to he could leave at any time, and they could do precisely _nothing_. He could disappear before they had the faintest hint he intended to. Such an oversight of his known abilities made his mind wander to paranoid thoughts of them lulling him into a false sense of security and rendering him unconscious...

But no, Inoichi had not thoughts of that. The interrogator wasn't pleased that Harry would be allowed outside the hospital, not at all, _especially_ among civilians. The bottom line was that Harry was _dangerous_; his loyalty to Konoha was nonexistent, his abilities unknown (they were aware he was hiding things, and this was one of them) and his mental state erratic at best. Also -though he hid it well, even in the confines of his well-organized mind- the blond was anxious over the idea of Harry chancing upon his daughter, Ino, a genin of Konoha.

He was worried Harry would harm his family.

Harry decided that the man was right to worry, so very _right_. As soon as he recognized Inoichi's fear, he realized that if a favorable opportunity presented itself he would gladly attack the man's family in retaliation for the initial intrusion and disruption of his mind. It was simply a fact, like his persistent desire to hurt the man when he prodded too deeply.

Inoichi had him recite back the rules, testing him and making him elaborate to make sure he comprehended what he was saying, finally ending with "I am to leave my hood up until you say otherwise."

The light finding its way through the window was by now a brilliant orange, signifying the day's end. Diverting a bit of attention back to his magic let him know that it was still Bird-mask outside his door. Hm.

"Can I go outside now?" Let it never be said that Harry wasn't persistent when he really wanted something. Inoichi stood and went to the door, sighing, and told him to put on his robe.

The door shut, and Harry was left alone again, though Inoichi was standing with Bird-mask now, most probably talking. Harry slid out of bed to retrieve his robe, warm from blocking sunlight all day. As he pulled the worn, charcoal-colored material over his head -it still smelled faintly of his blood, actually...- he acknowledged that at one time it probably would have bothered him that they didn't offer him fresh clothes before he was allowed to wander. Not even shoes. The only thing he felt about it now was faint amusement; the reactions of people outside the hospital would be quite funny, if they managed to see him.

Harry checked his blindfold in the window's reflection -noticing but disregarding his silent reflection's urgings to sort out his rampant memories- and pulled his hood low over his face, until everything above his mouth was in shadow. They were keeping him secret, because of his appearance and resemblance to 'Orochimaru' (and really, he needed to find out just _what_ the man did. He had the sneaking suspicion it was _really bad_, especially if he was right, and the bad guys _did_ always have snake affinities...), so it would be best for his continued peace if he just went along with it.

_(At least the first time.)_

Inoichi and Bird-mask stood waiting with an almost solemn air; Harry scented the air and found it laced with the bitter tang of a slight, nervous sweat. Was that apprehension?

"Do you expect me to be bad, Inoichi?" Harry's voice emerged with an ironic, nearly amused lilt, one he didn't bother to censor. Of all the times... Inoichi didn't deign to answer, however, instead making a gesture with one hand that sent Bird-mask down the hall and away. It must have been what they had talked about before, because the interrogator didn't think anything of the ANBU after that.

Harry wanted to ask where Birdy went, but didn't want Inoichi to become distracted when they were _finally_ going outside. Instead, he fell in step beside the blond and traveled the opposite direction, a hall he had never had reason to go down before.

The few people in what was obviously the lobby stared as they passed; Harry spotted none of the metal plates called hitai-ate, and detected with his magic none of the honed chakra of shinobi, so decided they must be Civilian, and thusly ignored their existence. All but the part of him always focused on the flows of his magic was honed in on the sight of orange light shining through the glass doors, growing closer with each step.

And he was finally outside. Harry took a deep breath, the anxious feeling that had been building dissolving into nothing at the feel of fresh, moving air flowing into his lungs. A soft, warm breeze tugged at the charcoal colored material he was swathed in, rustling the dragging hem over verdant grass. What a lovely idea, he thought, to put a park outside a hospital.

Harry drifted aimlessly under the tall _(alivealivealive)_ trees, stopping often to touch the delicate petals of a flower or to watch small birds hop among the branches over his head. He had never had such an opportunity before, and found if refreshing to be able to take the time to admire the simple tranquility -the quiet peace- of the world around him.

Inoichi was easy to ignore, utterly silent as he followed Harry with an almost comfortable half dozen feet separating them. The twilight of dusk slowly gave way to night; pale orange seen through swaying leaves turned a muzzy purple, and finally to blue-black. Harry observed it all with fond nostalgia, before the slightest pangs of longing made themselves known as he realized that it was the perfect weather for flying. He hadn't flown in so long... And he never would again...

The birds had retired to their nests for the evening, crickets chirping loudly under the rising crescent moon. Night blooming moonflowers opened, pale petals catching the weak light and glowing luminously amongst the darkened branches. Harry could admit that they were very pretty, though the unblemished petals bothered him in their untainted perfection. They... could be better.

He drifted towards the curtain of vines that the flowers bloomed from, humming quietly as he considered a single glowing flower, nearly as large as his hand. He would make it better. It was too perfect to be beautiful in his eyes. Harry brought a thumb to his mouth and sliced it open on the largest and sharpest of his many fangs, squeezing until dark blood welled from the clean, deep cut. With great accuracy he flicked the blood across his target flower, again and again until he was satisfied, and the _need_ had finally gone.

Absently licking his bloody thumb, Harry stood back from the curtain and admired his flower, unique and beautiful amongst its glowing fellows. It was _better_, now. Inoichi came forward _(It was really too easy to forget sometimes, that he was not alone... Chakra still felt so alien from magic...)_ to stand beside him, studying Harry's bloody moonflower as Harry studied _him_. The man gave no indication of his thoughts, though it didn't take him long to speak up.

"Why did you do that?" With that tone... it was easy to pretend that Inoichi was not a ninja, and just another school counselor asking why the people in his pictures were always broken. It was just as easy to recall that nothing ever came from telling things to the counselor, that nothing really mattered in the end.

Harry turned his head in the direction of his flower, though his hidden eyes stayed riveted on the blond. "I didn't like it how it was, so I changed it." He saw that his response surprised Inoichi; perhaps the conviction and surety he said it with. The man had no clue the power that kind of resolve had when in Harry's possession.

This went far beyond the realm of moon-blooming flowers and their flawless imperfection.

It was as simple -and complicated- as the fact that when Harry saw something he didn't like, he attempted to change it. While Harry had very nearly been sorted into Slytherin for his cunning and ambition, in the end it was his courage and stubborn _nerve_ that put him into Gryffindor... Those traits put together would have made him a hell of a politician, had the circumstances been different. Magic had allowed him to start changing things, from the very beginning.

Back in the mists of first year, when magic was still new and exciting and _wonderfulchanceescape_, Harry noticed the way everyone was treating Hermione, and he _didn't like it_. He made a friend of her, and the taunts that had followed before had diminished greatly as she was seen in the limelight with the Boy-Who-Lived. What he had told neither Ron or Hermione was that not everyone had backed off immediately, but those who hadn't found themselves receiving anonymous letters full of compiled blackmail, and the warning to bugger off. Or else. _(Oh, and he would have done it. You don't need to be a Potion's Master to get your hands on a poison potent enough to drip on paper and kill someone with contact...)_

Third year made Harry aware of his glaring weakness to the creatures called Dementors, and that was something he could not allow. So he learned a spell that was well out of the ability of most _Aurors_. And when he found out his Godfather had been framed for turning traitor and getting his parents killed... and the _real_ framing traitor was still alive and a _rat_; that the Dementor's Kiss had been administered... No, nonono. He didn't even have to think; going back in time a few hours to save his Godfather. (And though it took almost four more years -Sirius dying anyway- and Harry's own capture, he finally paid Wormtail back. Everything came full circle.)

_Umbridge_. What a joke. Harry undermined her at every opportunity, going so far as teaching _real_ defense to the DA. He even got to kill her! That might have been the only thing Harry would have ever thanked Voldemort for... besides the Dursley family, anyway.

And after hearing the Prophecy, Harry decided that he was too weak, too forgiving. So he got stronger, more ruthless, so that _just maybe_ he could win before it was too late. If he lost more than a bit of humanity to gain his power, well, it _had_ to be worth it. Because no one else should have to die for, or because of him, ever again.

_Ahh, if only we could have stayed in the Wizarding World_ the little voice lamented quietly. _Our power could have turned that outdated society on its head..._

Harry pulled a face as the voice drifted out of mind again. He wasn't sure why, but it bothered him when the voice grouped it and himself together. Something about the use of plurals sounded... off. We. Our. For a reason he couldn't pinpoint, ideas of souls and the nature of magic came to mind-

The voice prodded him and kindly reminded him that Inoichi was still standing beside him and was trying to get his attention without actually touching him.

Harry slowly turned his head to look at the blond, peripherally aware that at some point his eyes had drifted to his blood-spattered moonflower, though he shivered now that he realized; in the dark, his blood looked far too close to _black_...

"Come, Harry." the man commanded, and Harry tensed in unknowing anger at the _order_. "You've wandered enough tonight."

Harry stared at the flower for another long moment, before shivering. "Okay." If he didn't _feel_ as faint as he sounded, he would have been surprised at the sound of his voice. He was glad to have been outside, but he was very... tired, now.

The journey back to the hospital, back to his room, was made in silence, though Harry often felt Inoichi's eyes on him. Only when the door closed behind him, when Inoichi left and the only presence he could feel was Birdy standing guard in the hall... Only then did Harry allow himself to shuck his robe and slump onto the stiff bed, pulling the blanket up over his head.

He meditated for a long time, drifting aimlessly in his mind -half hoping, for some reason, to _find_ the voice- before he reached a gaping darkness and fell asleep...

Harry woke screaming at first light, though he remembered only one image from the dream; one with such clarity that it must have been a memory.

Himself, seated cross-legged on an obsidian tablet, under cold winter moonlight. In one pale hand a was a bloodied clear-quartz athame, index finger adorned with a similarly bloodied golden ring, a large black stone set imperiously. In the other hand a small golden cup with two finely-wrought handles; there was blood within the cup. The slash across his throat spilled crimson over the heavy golden locket that hung from his thin neck. Blood was likewise smeared over pale lips.

There was a flash. Between one blink and the next, something had changed.

The three golden items he was adorned with had changed somehow. Became...mundane. All the blood was gone.

The gash across his throat closed, leaving a second scar over a much fainter, smaller line.

Glassy green eyes, deep-set in dark bruises, widened, flashing hellfire red before closing.

When they opened, the pupils were slits set in bloodshot green eyes.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** Because I'm evil, that's why :3 Anyone care to tell me what they think? And if I remember correctly -not sure, I haven't read the chapter after this one in months- we have some 'Rookie 9' interaction next chapter~


	11. Chapter 9: Manipulation

**A/N:** No need to get out the pointy sticks, here's your update XP See? More prompt this time, even with the little mutation this chapter went through in the process of getting it from paper to type :3 And beware the upcoming mood!whiplash! Enjoy!

/-/-/-/-/

Chapter 9; Manipulation

That first trip into the hospital's surrounding park was only one of the many times he was allowed to wander there in the next few days, though none of the subsequent outings gave him as much pleasure. He was distracted and irritable, so much that Inoichi -_(thoughts grim with the probability of Harry's mind cracking further)_- had slackened the intensity of the daily interrogation, barely doing more than talking inanely.

The reason, at its root, was the almost _(had to be)_ memory dream that he had awoken to so many days previous. As many times as he tried, thinking hard of the snippet he remembered, Harry couldn't call up the memory of the event like he could all his other loose memories. Even worse; as the days went by the image faded more and more. It felt like he was being blocked, like there was a force keeping him from searching out his answers.

Harry _knew_, though, that the memory attached to that image was important. It felt _vital_, like it would answer so much... What Voldemort had been doing in his attempts to circumvent the Prophecy. What he had _done to Harry_.

_Soon,_ said the voice, softly insistent. _There are other memories to be uncovered, as well; the time is not yet right. Just a while longer..._ And the voice receded, his magic swirling internally, working at a task he still could not identify. _(His magic was out of his control; the knowledge of that terrified him more than anything else.)_

Harry whined, hands fisted and tangled in his hair as he shook his head in denial. "No, no, _no_..." he whispered, painfully aware of the ANBU outside his door, and the fact the ninja would burst in if he became too loud. He didn't want to have to remember any more. The last few memories had left him ill and miserable, without fail.

The first had been another glimpse of his life in the dark little cell. By that point he had long since lost any ability to move, and had begun to hallucinate things trying to drag him into the floor. He had screamed, and screamed, and _screamed_, and it had done nothing to rid him of the sensation of hands on his wrists, around his throat, in his hair, dragging him into a cold deeper than anything he'd ever experienced. Somehow, _not_ seeing had made everything so much worse.

The next memory was somehow even more disturbing, his sight distorted and warped, his mind a dull haze. There was a sense of horror, as if something _very bad _had happened, but he just _couldn't understand_. But he still ached. There was a burning in his chest, alien, unlike anything he'd felt before, and the only color he could see was _red_.

The last memory was the one he could most do without; wanted _so badly_ to believe that there were no more like it, but knew there were.

Without his conscious control, a hand untangled itself from his hair and snaked up under the sleeve of his shirt, tracing one of the fewer bites just below his shoulder. It was different. It was _not his bite_.

Voldemort was sick. That had to be the only reason he made Harry bleed _every time_. The only... _good_... was that the Dark Lord didn't _share_.

Harry tugged on his hair and ground his teeth until his eyes watered. Had his magic not been so preoccupied with _whatever the fuck it was doing_ it probably would have lashed out and broken something. As it was, Harry shook silently for a few minutes before he finally snapped, hurling the glass on the bedside table across the room with an open handed slap, where it hit the wall and shattered spectacularly, splashing water everywhere.

"I don't want to remember anymore!" Harry screamed "I don't want to remember!" he tugged harder at his hair, wishing for something else to break, but his room was obviously lacking such things. He screamed again furiously, wordlessly, just barely managing to keep from harming himself in his blinding anger. His arms still jerked, and all he wanted to do was _bite_..!

His fury burned out, leaving Harry suddenly cold and shaking, his continuous screaming turned to keening wails and then silent sobs. Coughing weakly, throat sore, Harry dragged the hospital-standard blanket up over his shoulders and rested his chin on his knees, and couldn't even remember when he had pulled them to his chest. He stared blankly at the rivulets of water running down the wall, anger spent, absently wiping at the dampness caught by his blindfold.

Only then did the door open, shedding bright fluorescent light into his perpetually dark room; Harry recognized Inoichi's backlit form immediately. It wasn't only the interrogator, though, but the healer-ANBU as well. His only acknowledgement to her words -"The light is coming on now, Harry-kun."- was to grunt and pull the blanket up higher, covering his head completely.

"You worried Sparrow-san with all your screaming." she said lightly as they came in. Harry pulled the blanket tighter around himself and didn't look at either of them.

"Who?" he rasped quietly, after a long stretch of silence he was meant to fill. One of them moved closer to the bed and Harry shifted farther away, towards the window-wall.

"'Birdy'," Inoichi stated, and Harry realized that it was him who had approached. Harry frowned distractedly, finding the fore of his mind foggy as it hadn't been since his time spent in that little rural village, and shoved a spark of magic through, relishing in his ability to sense their presences once more. Interesting, but also troubling.

"Oh," Harry sighed in response, rubbing his eyes through the blindfold and letting the blanket fall, no longer using it to disguise his diminished shaking. He glanced at the medic-nin's dark eyes just in time to catch _'Getting him to say anything lately is worse than interrogating a damn Iwa-nin...'_

"Did you have another nightmare?" she asked sympathetically, eyeing the broken glass dubiously. Harry fought down the impulse to spit venom at her for her undue familiarity with him. He sneered instead, but kept his tone absolutely neutral when he spoke to her.

"No." It was only when he turned to face Inoichi that his tone became bitter. "Just remembering things best left forgotten."

Inoichi bowed his head in acknowledgement, a lingering, unspoken apology almost tangible around him, as it was every time the topic of Harry's broken memories was mentioned. Harry sighed and uncurled from the tight ball he continued to find himself in, stretching to release the tension that had built from being like that so long.

Both ninja were by now familiar enough with him to understand when he had no intention to speak further and obliged in moving the conversation along without his input. Harry blinked when he realized that these people -who barely tolerated him and had known him for such a comparatively short amount of time- had learned to manage him better than any of the Order ever had. Just how _wrong_ was that? The Order of the Phoenix were supposed to have been his allies... and yet people who could at any moment decide to _kill him_ were giving him more respect...

"Hokage-sama is pleased with your behavior, and has decided that you may go farther from the Hospital the next time Yamanaka-san takes you out." The healer spoke to him in her usual quiet, emotionally neutral voice. She was losing the nervousness that had clung to her thoughts since she first set eyes on him, her interactions almost familiar, now. Harry found himself almost... angry... with the near-patronizing tone she was starting to take. Like he was a _stupid little child_.

Something of his thoughts must have slipped into his posture, because both of the shinobi shifted their stances the slightest bit, tense and loose all at once. Harry forced himself calm (a monumental task at the moment) and had to remind himself that these people _were_, in fact, _ninja_. They were trained to fight, and he shouldn't provoke them now; not when his magic was occupied- _Only for a bit longer_ whispered the voice- and couldn't be easily called upon to protect him.

Harry sighed and picked at the tangled mess of hair hanging in his face, relaxing back against the headboard if only to get the shinobi to uncoil from their fight-ready stances. He knew that he wouldn't be going anywhere today, could see it in the near indecipherable look in Inoichi's eye; he was too _wild_ today. The interrogator didn't even stay to 'talk', perhaps recognizing Harry's need for solitude to calm himself: Healer-ANBU gave him another handful of vitamins and cleaned the glass and water from the floor, before she too left. She only came in once more that day, to leave another bowl of mineral-rich broth, but otherwise left him undisturbed.

The next day was better from having spent the bulk of the previous in quiet meditation... though perhaps meditation wasn't the correct term. In his desperation to keep away from the dark memories creeping into his consciousness, Harry fell back to habit and completely loosed his mind from his body, attached only by the most tenuous of strings. The memories couldn't touch him in the peaceful ether of his sanctuary, though there was something distinctly _wrong_ feeling, about having to utilize this means of escape again. _(A creeping suspicion, one he didn't want to acknowledge, told him that it was this escape that had caused his memories to be locked away in the first place. The mind was a delicate thing.)_

Harry wanted to be calm. He _needed_ to be calm; he couldn't afford to snap when Inoichi took him out next. Harry didn't like the implications attached to the allowances the Hokage was making for him. He had been used too long to let himself believe that the leader was letting him in further contact with his citizens for no reason: By all rights, Harry should be hidden away completely if he looked so much like this 'Orochimaru', not let outside in contact with people who _didn't know_. It was almost like the leader _wanted_ someone to see him...

But still, Harry wouldn't deny the opportunity to go farther from the hospital, so he needed to be _calm_.

A quick tap on the door heralded Inoichi's entrance, unaccompanied by Healer; Harry saw the man falter at the threshold, his eyes flicking around the room almost frantically until they landed on him, standing beside the obstructed window. Some amusement filtered into his forced calm as he wondered if Inoichi did that little motion _every_ time he came in and Harry was out of sight.

"Hello, Inoichi." Harry said, drifting away from the window to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore his skeletal thinness by tucking his legs up under him. Inoichi stood in the doorway another moment before joining him, though he remained standing. Harry tilted his head; were they not going to 'talk' again today?

"Hello Harry." Inoichi replied in turn, an almost invisible frown tugging the corners of his lips down, darkening his eyes to hardened jade. "You seem to be doing better today." He still was making no move to sit, and seemed so very _disturbed_.

"I feel better," Harry answered slowly, tilting his head further. _Ah_. "Are you taking me outside today?" He didn't need to watch for the other's short nod to know he was right; if he'd have taken another moment to think before glancing into the blond man's surface thoughts, he would have figured it out on his own. He remembered how dissatisfied Inoichi had been with having to escort him around the _hospital _grounds, so of course he would be less that thrilled with the prospect of Harry being near other people.

Inoichi answered in the affirmative, and Harry found a smile creeping onto his lips. Even if he had to endure the sunlight for it, time spent out of the hospital room was the best treat he could be offered. Harry wasted no time in rising to pull his robe from its hanging place over the window, though he took the insisted-on precaution of carefully adjusting his hood once he was swathed in the familiar folds of worn cloth. Again, he had to wonder just what this Orochimaru person had done, that the ninja preferred the suspicion a hood would attract over him simply showing his face.

_(Maybe...maybe he would find out before he left Konoha, when he could use Legilimency and dig deep enough to _force_ thoughts to come forward, and no longer have to worry about someone discovering his mind reading...)_

As they made their way through the halls, Inoichi murmured reminders to him: Don't talk to the civilians, don't show his face, don't wander off... Harry tuned the interrogator out, as he had the feeling the man was talking more to himself than to Harry, and either way, Harry remembered the rules very well. He'd never seen the interrogator so worked up before, but couldn't catch his eyes long enough to find what was bothering him. The lobby was near empty when they passed though, and though he felt the hum of developed chakra in one of the few people there -always interesting to him- Harry didn't pause on his way out the door.

It wasn't yet mid-morning and the streets outside the hospital's park were only sparely trafficked. Inoichi led them off the main thoroughfare before the hospital was even out of sight, winding through the narrower paths behind residences and shops with the same sort of familiarity as Harry had with the secret passages of Hogwarts. Konoha was a strange place, Harry decided as he looked around him; strange, but in a good way. There were trees everywhere. So unlike the muggle neighborhood he grew up in, where uniformity was expected; every building was different from it's neighbor, be it in color, size or shape. More than one was built _around_ a tree, and still more were completely surrounded by them. It was a pleasant change from what he was used to.

The pace Inoichi set was leisurely, but the fact that he was _leading_ rather than letting Harry wander as he usually did was rather telling, even if they were walking side by side. A sharp smirk stole over Harry's face and stayed there, hidden by the shadow of his low hood; it amused him to no ends to realize that the interrogator didn't want Harry at his back. He _could_ have taken offense, but decided to take it as a compliment instead, though he had to wonder what the man thought he would -or _could_- do.

Harry contented himself with moseying closer to the high wooden fence they walked beside, basking in the shade cast by the trees standing on the other side. After the first couple times, he noticed with a vague sort of interest that every time they passed another person Inoichi would casually block them from his line of sight. The funny thing was that Harry couldn't tell if the man was doing it consciously, or if it was some ingrained reflex. The sideway glances by his escort made him lean towards it being deliberate, though.

Inoichi kept them out of the densely populated areas, but as the din of voices grew closer, Harry was occasionally treated to the presence of another ninja brushing against the outer edges of his magic. He was never close enough to _see_ -they were, perhaps, a street over- because of the buildings, but it was interesting none the less. When they weren't attacking him (or using chakra against him, or generally pestering him) Harry was rather interested in these _shinobi_.

More specifically, their _chakra_. He didn't know why... He just wanted to _know_.

Harry was pulled out of his pondering when his tongue flicked out -as it had continued to do reflexively when he'd stopped consciously repressing it- and caught the bite of anxiety, of _fear_, in the air. His eyes snapped to Inoichi, who was the only one close enough for the scent to be so potent, and found the blond just glancing away, focusing on a group of people farther down the alley.

It was with no little amount of interest that Harry looked more closely at the group of four; saw the shine of hitai-ate and felt the chakra in them. Ninja. Three of them were much weaker in presence than the fourth, though; less distinct than Inoichi or any of his ANBU.

Huh... Three of them were children, yet...-_You cannot call them children unless you wish to label yourself as one. You're the same age, now..._ the voice purred, amused- And it was only the fourth -the adult- that appeared to notice Harry and Inoichi observing them, although the distance was too far to see their expression.

Now, what could have Inoichi so worked up? (Though, of course, the man didn't _show_ it much beyond the tensing in his shoulders.) Harry seriously doubted that these were enemies; he didn't get the impression that the blond was the kind of man to fear battle, especially not without overwhelming odds...

It was then that Harry registered that one of the children -_You're calling yourself a child!_ the voice chuckled, prompting Harry to wince- wore their hair in a long tail like the interrogator did, and the color was just a shade brighter.

Oh, how fortuitous. Would this maybe be _Ino_, Yamanaka Inoichi's only child?

Inoichi had stopped walking, and Harry stopped a second later; a step ahead of the man, a step closer to the group than he was. Harry turned, lifting the edge of his hood with a sleeve-covered hand, just enough to let Inoichi know that he was _looking_.

"My, Inoichi," Harry began softly, lips twitching up slightly. "Would that be familial resemblance I see?" He would have loved to use the girl's name, but in a land where mind-reading wasn't unheard of it was better to keep _his_ ability hidden. And he didn't even want to consider what they would do about him having information like that, even without discovering his Legilimency.

Harry released his hood, sending his face back into shadow, though he tilted his head to express his continued curiosity. "Do I, perhaps, get an introduction?" _(This was still wrong. Inoichi wasn't surprised enough, for all that he wasn't pleased: Was this _planned?_)_ Before the last syllable had completely fallen from his tongue there was a surprised call from farther down the alley, from the group that had finally noticed them.

"Dad?" said the girl's high voice, and either she was a very good actor or this run-in was obviously an unexpected thing. Harry was close enough to see the corners of Inoichi's eyes tighten -as if suppressing pain- and he had to try very hard to smooth away the maniacal look he knew he was wearing. Head still tilted curiously, Harry watched silently as Inoichi raised a hand -likely to forestall any approach by the group- and turned to scrutinize him carefully.

The staring was starting to become uncomfortable, and Harry realized that Inoichi was waiting for something... waiting for him to _say_ something. Harry blinked. "I won't _do_ anything to them, Inoichi." He said blandly, the sarcastic humor gone from his voice. With a frown he turned away, watching the Yamanaka spawn shift in her group, her _team_. "I'm crazy, not stupid."

He still wanted to hurt the girl, even more now than before: Inoichi wasn't hiding his fear as well as he thought he was, the scent of it making Harry sharp as the newer part of his mind screamed _preypreyprey!_ But it was the bitter knowledge (_that he would rather live without)_ that urged him forward... Inoichi was closer, it would be _easier_ to attack him without warning, pay him back tenfold in _pain_ for daring to intrude on the darkness of his mind... But that _knowledge_. He _knew_ how to hurt the blond interrogator worse, there were so many more ways... and they all culminated in _family_. Bonds, attachment, _love_. Hurting the people he cared for would hurt Inoichi more than anything Harry could do to the man's body, with any magic he could cast.

And Harry wanted to hurt Inoichi _so badly_...

Inoichi was giving Harry a strange look, but Harry didn't care to see what kind of thoughts his blunt statement had sparked within the interrogator's mind. Atop all the things that Harry had said to the man, and everything he must have observed... it must have painted an interesting picture for everyone who made it their business to 'know' him. Maybe he would feel the need to look when he left Konoha, but right now he just didn't _care_. _(Keep the calm, he had to _keep_ the calm; breathe, breathe...)_ Nonetheless, it must have reassured _something_ of his escort's worries, for the almost-pain look around his eyes disappeared and he led Harry towards the waiting team.

The elder Yamanaka allowed him to linger a half-step behind when they finally came within distance for a proper introduction, and though he kept his hooded head down, Harry's eyes stayed locked on the strongest of them. There was something frustratingly familiar about him, but Harry couldn't place his features; the eyes, or maybe the beard..?

"I apologize if we have interrupted your training." Inoichi said to the man by way of greeting, though his voice sounded oddly stilted to Harry's ears. Harry looked between the two men with a mild frown.

"No, no problem," the dark haired man assured with a slow, dismissive wave of his hand; Harry caught the scent of tobacco smoke when he moved. The children -ninja though they were- didn't look upset at the prospect of missing 'training', either. "Did you need something?" His gaze traveled to Harry and returned to the blond with a slight frown; Inoichi shook his head and rolled his shoulders. Harry was just a little floored to realize that an entire conversation had been held in those innocuous motions.

"Dad, who's that?" Yamanaka's daughter cut in, leaning around her father to get a better look at Harry; he hadn't realized Inoichi was blocking his way to the girl. _(Had he done it on purpose; did he _know_?)_ Harry took the opportunity to study her face, comparing her features to Inoichi's, and decided that their eyes set them most apart. Almost the same shade of blue-green, striking with the lack of any visible pupil, but Inoichi's held a darkness that Ino's were yet without. As a ninja, one trained to fight _(to kill)_, how long could she keep that light? What would extinguish it?

Harry had to wonder when he himself had lost the light in his eyes. He thought it was sometime before Hogwarts; smothered in the darkness of his cupboard, or quenched from tears of hunger and pain.

He couldn't decide if he hated or envied the younger Yamanaka for still having her light. _You could always extinguish it yourself..._ the voice whispered distractedly, with _promise_. Harry set the idea aside to ponder at a more appropriate time, when he wasn't so scrutinized, and returned his full attention to the shinobi.

"This is Harry, currently a ward of the hospital." Inoichi glanced over at him, his voice perfectly affable and utterly _strange_, and Harry frowned again, feeling that this was to be some sort of test after all. "Harry, this is Team Ten; they can tell you their names if they so choose." Suddenly it wasn't just Ino looking at him strangely; the bored-looking one, who had previously been so enthralled with watching the sky, was watching him keenly, and even the large one was looking on with confusion. _His_ thoughts were obvious; _why_ was Inoichi denying Harry something so simple as their names?

"'A ward of the hospital'?" parroted the fat boy; Harry looked at him appraisingly, and saw that he wasn't that _flabby_ kind of fat like Dudley, but simply _large_. "What's he doing so far from the hospital, then?" It was somewhat strange to have someone ...appearing... his own age talking over him like that. Like the boy wasn't sure if he was _allowed_ to talk to Harry. Ino was still watching him wordlessly, and the bored boy was looking at the sky again; the dark, tobacco man's eyes had never really left him in the first place.

Harry turned his head to Inoichi inquiringly and was met with a bland look and a raised eyebrow that seemed to convey _'Well? Go on, then.'_. It was obvious that he wasn't going to answer... that he wanted _Harry_ to say something, again. The silence dragged, and still Harry didn't move, not even when one of the ..._genin_ shifted nervously: Harry narrowed his eyes in frustration and _looked_. _'Go ahead, say something. Just how aware are you? How much do you __**know**__ about the situation you've forced us into? You always turn to me, but as an authority figure or otherwise...'_

Harry turned away in wary amusement, giving the genin his attention. One of these days Inoichi would learn to ask the right questions out loud; one of these days Harry might actually answer them, if only to see the man twitch. The interrogator should have known better: They never gave Harry any rules about talking to shinobi.

"Inoichi is taking me for a walk." Harry told them, sensing more than anything the way his escort stiffened at his side: Now that his voice wasn't so rough from constant disuse he sounded much closer to the age he _looked_, albeit sinisterly accented... but the innocent tone still sounded _wrong_. "I've been a good boy, so I'm allowed to leave the hospital now." Inoichi was most certainly twitching _now_, but Harry wasn't done; he shot a sidelong glance at the interrogator, the edges of his hood swaying. "He _has_ been taking me quite far, though, so I hope he doesn't do anything bad."

It appeared that Inoichi lost his internal battle; he held a hand over his eyes and groaned, almost like he was in pain. Harry laughed quietly, little more than a subdued chuckle, and then slightly louder when the interrogator started at the sound. The team, unused to Harry's erratic and misleading behavior, reacted far more violently to the ..._leading_ insinuation.

"What!" the indignant shout came from little Ino-girl, and at her side the fat one appeared to choke on his own spit, requiring a smack on his back by the slouching, bored boy to get over his sudden coughing fit. The bored one was looking at him again, though, and out of curiosity Harry glimpsed into his head; he found layer upon layer of fast moving, branching thoughts, too many to track with such casual Legilimency. _Smart_ boy.

The sensei of the team looked more relaxed than bored, but there was a new tenseness to him that hadn't been there before Harry spoke. His dark eyes were sharp with awareness and locked onto Harry's face -what little he could see under the obstructing curtain that was his hood, anyway.

"If I didn't know that you said that just to rile up the team, I would have to take offense." Inoichi said dryly, loud enough for the others to hear; more for their benefit than Harry's. Their faces turned even funnier to watch when Harry only chuckled again in response, more darkly than before.

_(Calm, he needed to find the calm. Amused was better than angry, but still worse than _calm_.)_

Basking in the awkward silence he'd created, Harry slunk into the shadow cast by another nearby tree, and Inoichi made no move to stop him. Walking around in daylight while cloaked in such a dark color, regardless of his pathetic lack of insulating body fat, was still too warm to be comfortable. It was a shame that the effects of a cooling charm would radiate, instantly obvious to anyone nearby... though, it could be rather _fun_ for people to feel cold whenever they approached him...

Inoichi sighed, and though he followed Harry's movement with his head he made no move to stop him; Harry kept his eyes on the taller shinobi, the leader of Team Ten. There was something almost hostile in the way the dark man watched him, a wary distrust that set Harry on edge, making the urge to _bite_ and _hiss_ and _attack_ all the more prominent, all that much harder to hide under the tattering veil of forced calm.

He was a little surprised that Ino was the one to break the awkward silence: Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, an expression that made her look very much like her father. Harry tensed. "Dad, is he why you've been so busy?"

A pointed look in her head told Harry that she knew _very well_ about the use of the Yamanaka family technique for interrogation, and just how proficient her father was. She was more than slightly disquieted with the suspicion that someone her own age -_'And so strange!_'- was being kept in the hospital and visited regularly by an interrogation specialist. (And there was a small bit gleaned, that Inoichi was so busy as of late that his duties at the family-run flower shop had to be shifted to his wife instead. It meant a lot, because Inoichi apparently took both pride and enjoyment in cultivating his flowers...)

Harry made note that all ninja of that family were taught the chakra form of the Mind Arts, and if he ever had to fight them he should be prepared for something akin to the Imperius Curse... He quickly drew himself out of the younger Yamanaka's mind when a pinched look appeared around her eyes.

A simple glance at the other's faces let Harry know that they _all_ seemed to know of Inoichi's specialty, and the elder Yamanaka wasn't exactly pleased with the turn the almost-conversation had taken. When her father had made no move to disagree, Ino turned back to look at Harry with wide, panicked eyes, while the fat boy at her side seemed to mimic her. The dark-bearded sensei was still frowning, the sharpness of the equally dark eyes making the feeling of _familiarity_ spark even more. Smart-boy took a slouching step in his direction, more curious than his teammates, but was halted by his sensei's heavy hand on his shoulder.

Harry lifted his head, smiling strangely. _(Ohh, Inoichi would regret not making any rules for talking with shinobi...)_ "Inoichi comes to visit me every day." He paused, as if contemplating something, when in reality he was choking down a sudden, inappropriate bout of hysterical laughter. "I still think I like Birdy better, though. He's more fun to play with."

Harry wasn't sure _when_ exactly he had started to enjoy..._playing_ with people, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he observed the quiet disorder he caused. As one, the genin seemed to exude confusion, unsure what to make of his statement: Inoichi was distinctly bothered, chakra sharpening in a way that made Harry shift and pull at his magic. He only realized he was hissing quietly under his breath when the dark man tilted his head, _listening_, and he snapped his teeth together with an improbably loud click.

"Harry..." Inoichi sighed, pressing his index and middle fingers to his temple in still-evident exasperation. Harry tilted his head and was about to comment -_"What? I didn't _do_ anything, Inoichi."_- when he felt a familiar presence approaching from close by. Berating himself -he should have been able to _feel_ farther than he was; he _would_ be if his magic wasn't ..._failing_- he turned to look.

That gesture must have been a signal, after all.

"Birdy!" Harry crowed, and saw a very distinct twitch in his ANBU's shoulder as the man appeared beside him, hand held out, palm open. He frowned a little, then, glancing at Inoichi; so much for anything 'planned' happening. He wondered what it was that made the man call for the ANBU... "Healer is going to be upset that you're sending me back already. She really doesn't like me."

Inoichi looked strained, and had moved himself to stand more obviously between Harry and the Team. "If you didn't go out of your way to taunt her, it wouldn't be a problem. Keep it up and she might decide to just sedate you." Harry ignored the startled reactions from the genin, his full focus on the blond before him, any remnants of his previous humor swept away as his mind ran into a rambling tangent as the last of the interrogator's words hit something _dark_.

Sedated. Drugged. Just like the potions he was sometimes fed; he could only just remember... The ones to keep him still when all he wanted _(needed)_ was to scream and writhe. There was one that numbed the body and prevented movement, made him so _cold_...

A barbed, twisting memory emerged from the smoke: When he reached out to isolate it with his magic, it burned, the mere feel of it making him ill. It was a bad one. One of the ones that'd been haunting the edges of his thoughts for days.

"That wasn't a nice thing to say." His voice came out flat and dead, and he didn't even need to _look_ to know that Inoichi realized he'd said something wrong. Harry turned his head to look at the team -_(so quiet, so still, were they _afraid_?)_- and felt so sluggish, so _weighed down_... "Goodbye."

He dropped his wrist into the ANBU's waiting hand, and the next moment he was on the Hospital's rooftop; he would have fallen -too slow to catch his own balance- if the shinobi hadn't kept hold of him. Even his ingrained revulsion at the contact couldn't make him bother trying to remove his wrist from ...Sparrow's grasp as the man led him to his room.

Harry was completely preoccupied with keeping the memory at metaphorical arm's length; he wouldn't have noticed had his ANBU decided to suddenly turn and slit his throat. The problem wasn't that the memory was trying to drift away, oh no, but that it was being _drawn in_. He didn't want to fall into it before he got to his room, because for all he knew his magic would go haywire and cause harm to the nearby presences.

He was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him as he stumbled to his bed; he had only just grasped the blanket when he slipped and the memory tore towards him, and he was falling-

_Harry knew he must have been lying here, stuck in the same position, for a very long time. If he didn't know better (but __**did**__ he know better, anymore?) he would think that he was without a body, so numb were his limbs._

_ It was as dark as his cell had been, but he knew this room was different. It was larger; the walls were far enough away that it took a few seconds for the sound of his labored breathing to bounce back, and it echoed loudly when it did. He vaguely remembered the feeling of stone -not dirt, like his cell- before he lost sensation._

_ Two red embers appeared over him a second before the walls started to glow softly, and Voldemort was looming over him, serpentine face set in a look of contemplation. Harry groggily realized that he was flat on the floor at the same time that the Dark Lord was crouched beside him, lifting his head with a spidery hand and pouring a potion down his throat. _

_If Harry thought before that he couldn't feel his body, he was wrong. He relaxed completely. His eyes fell half-closed and his breathing grew shallow, though his heart pounded hard and fast in desperation as it felt like his body was finally failing him._

_ Pale white fingers ending in long, yellowish claws deliberately pressed his eyelids closed. Harry was ashamed at the relief he felt when their connection expanded, and he raced along the bond to see through Voldemort's eyes._

_ Harry tried to ignore how much it looked -and **felt**- like he was dead, just as he tried to ignore Voldemort's feelings filtering in through the connection. He failed on both parts, but kept his anxiety tightly pulled and small to avoid Voldemort's detection, still unsure how sensitive the Dark Lord was of the bond. It was a blessing and a curse; he could be aware of what was happening to him (did he want to know, anyway?) but from this perspective it was like he was **enjoying** inflicting these... tortures... upon himself. Enjoying them -feeling pride in what he had done._

_ (So wrong, so wrongwrongwrong...)_

_ He -**Voldemort**- arranged limp, bite-scarred arms outstretched on the smooth floor, uncurled Harry's legs so he was spread-eagle before forming stone over his wrists and ankles. Harry refused to let his growing despair drown him, instead trying to separate himself from Voldemort and hide in his numbed, unfeeling body._

_ (This was going to be bad, so bad, so badbadbad, he didn't want to see...)_

_ His inattention meant that he couldn't decipher a word of the slanted, thin scrawl in the small book Voldemort drew from an inner pocket and briefly skimmed. Harry **did** recognize the script, though; it was the Dark Lord's handwriting, and the feeling accompanying the action was pride laced with anticipation. They must have been notes... there had been a diagram of a person in the same position he'd arranged Harry into..._

_ He really wished that he was more than a bodiless presence right then -he felt the need to curl into a ball for a long, long time._

_ Voldemort banished Harry's clothes with a negligent flick of his wand, cleaning him of miscellaneous dirt, grime, and blood with another in an unsettlingly routine way. The shallow rise and fall of his thin chest wasn't quite as distracting as the spot in his sunken stomach where he could **see** his heartbeat fluttering from an unnaturally exposed blood vessel. Then he realized that Voldemort was staring with such rapt fascination, but he couldn't pinpoint **why** and Harry was staring, more than a little fascinated, too-_

_ The Dark Lord closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then spoke a string of hissing words that would be impossible for anyone but a Parselmouth to pronounce, but it **wasn't** the snake language. When his eyes opened he scrutinized Harry again, and this time Harry appeared shrouded fully in a pulsing, bronze colored aura. It was thick enough to obstruct his body from view, but he -**they**- saw that the area of his chest hid a darker core, buried under the cover of bronze._

_ Voldemort stared fixedly at the dark area. After a while it seemed to be spinning, almost hypnotically, actually-_

_ Eyes closed suddenly and Voldemort laughed wryly, the sound like nails on chalkboard. "Tricky, Harry, but that won't work on **me**."_

_ Harry had no time to ponder the other's rambling, for he spoke another string of the strange language and opened his eyes, right hand held palm down over the covered, swirling dark area in Harry's chest. Dark red mist -the color of old rust, of clotted blood- sank from each of the clawed fingers and bled into Harry's pulsing, bronze aura._

_ Then the aura shuddered and parted around the expanding strings of red mist; two sensations hit Harry at once, and he knew immediately which was his. Ecstasy and agony. (Painpainpain, ripping, tearing, **pain**.) Voldemort exhaled shakily, eyes falling half closed as rust-red continued peeling back the erratically moving metallic aura, heedless of the wisps lashing back; Harry's body shuddered and twitched as the aura folded away, low reflexive noises of pain escaping his throat._

_ Harry could barely think, but he knew something now, something base. He shouldn't be able to feel anything physically painful right now, not after that potion. This was not physical pain. Voldemort was attacking his magic, but not destroying it; it felt **very good** for the Dark Lord to use his own magic in such a way. And there was nothing but blinding, world-ending pain for the recipient. For him._

_ When the swirling dark was exposed completely the dual, dueling sensations faded to ghosts; the red -Voldemort's magic- held the bronze -his own- back, but stopped actively rending. **They** examined the vaguely spherical mass with acute interest, Voldemort fascinated and amused and Harry curious, though more than a little apprehensive in response to what the Dark Lord felt._

_ It was a swirling, irregular sphere that was such a dark green that it appeared black. Voldemort was fixated on the slashes of -Harry would have started in alarm, had his body been capable of it- killing curse green, though Harry felt that -for a reason he couldn't identify- the strings of ghostly, mercurial silver were far more worrisome. There were four strings; one burrowed deeply within the sphere, but the other three only coiled loosely around it._

_ "So, your mudblood mother's protection wasn't as perfect as our **dear Headmaster** would have us believe." The other mused, disdain the dominant feeling, though it was likely all for Dumbledore. Harry saw the green slashes actually cut deep gouges into the sphere. If he hadn't been fully protected from the killing curse -if Voldemort was right, but he was a genius in all things magic, and he felt so **sure**...- did that mean that the dark sphere was Harry's-_

_ Voldemort's wand, wielded in his left hand, touched the silvery strand that was woven inseparably deep into the damaged sphere; satisfaction and dark amusement were thick when he spoke. "How did you manage this? Dabbling in soul magics already, Harry? You make this so easy." He shifted his wand and touched the woven strand with a single finger -Harry was more than a little preoccupied though._

_ That damaged sphere, that hurt, dark thing was his **soul**? Harry felt shock, but it quickly turned to extreme disgust when he realized that Voldemort was **touching his soul**._

_ He felt surprise that was not his own, and the eyes he was seeing through suddenly turned upward in contemplative thought. Then Harry felt a brush of magic against his being and he couldn't feel anything from the other anymore, though he still saw through his eyes._

_ "What an interesting trick you have developed, Harry." His voice held none of the amusement it usually did when he spoke to Harry, but Harry knew why even without the emotional insight their connection granted. The Dark Lord valued his privacy, and liked his mind invaded about as much as Harry himself did..._

_ "While it pleases me that you've finally decided to join me, you have the worst timing." It was bad; Harry couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "You will have to just watch for now-" Bad feeling, a very bad feeling. "-We can **talk** later." Nonono..._

_ Voldemort shifted his wand back into a proper grip and touched it to one of the three loose strands on the surface of Harry's soul. He chanted a short, clipped sentence and jabbed the tip -strand attached- deep into the swirling dark._

_ Unadulterated agony ripped through his non-being, far outstripping any pain he had ever felt as the mercurial strand came alive and burrowed and twisted itself into his soul. Bereft of all sensations and emotions not his own, Harry was left to his agony and despair alone. He would have cried, screamed, (**begged** for this pain to stop) if he could, but could only writhe ineffectually from a locked-off portion of the Dark Lord's mind._

_ The other two strands were woven in, in quick succession following the first, the pain pushing higher each time; Harry saw that even tightly restrained, his body was convulsing violently. Blood was leaking from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Barely heard over the static buzzing of Voldemort's raw magic were keening, broken sobs from Harry's otherwise unmoving body._

_ Voldemort wasn't finished._

_ He traced a rune into the air over Harry's hypnotically spinning soul and then sunk it in. And another. And another. He pushed in over a dozen runes, though Harry only recognized a few of the most common. Joining, anchoring, protection, focus. None of the runes hurt, or left any visible mark, but tingled like ozone over the pain -in comparison, not unpleasant at all. _

_ It left Harry feeling violated, all the same. He couldn't determine if it was only a feeling, or an actual sensation from the ...**work** done to his soul._

_ The other drew a deep breath, sounding exhausted. When he exhaled he drew his right hand back, the rust red magic pulling away with it. Harry was keenly aware of his magic rushing back into place, the sensation euphoric, though it was never one he wanted to feel again. Nothing could ever compare to the feel of his magic cradling and soothing his hurting soul (like a living thing...), but Harry never wanted his magic so stripped from him, so removed..._

_ A touch of the other's magic brushed over him again, and Harry suddenly found himself bereft of sight. He didn't panic -though his most vital senses were still denied him- because he **knew** what had happened. Voldemort had somehow pushed Harry's presence back along their connection and into his own body. He was similarly unsurprised when clawed fingers pushed his eyelids open, though that was likely because of the emotional vacuum he was currently dwelling in._

_ Voldemort had just **manipulated** his **soul**._

_ He was somehow aware that Voldemort rid him of the stone bindings at his wrists and ankles, though he was still numb and immobile. He **hurt**. A red haze clouded his sight, presumably from his eyes bleeding; he still saw when Voldemort came close and cupped his face, and regained enough sensation to feel the thin, icy fingers wipe away the blood._

_ "What will be Prophecy mean, now?" The sibilant voice mused quietly, almost soothingly. "When I will not kill you, and you cannot kill me?" Harry blinked and shook his head as much as he could while trapped between the other's hands. "Shh, be still Harry. You can rest, now..."_

_ Harry blinked again and saw that not all the red haze was from blood, but whatever spell Voldemort cast was still in effect. The rusted color of the Dark Lord's aura pressed all around him, but this close Harry saw clearly the other color swirling in his chest -what he knew to be the soul. It wasn't so much a sphere as it was a tangled, tattered mess of silvery strings; it glowed with an almost opalescent sheen that reminded Harry starkly of a ghost..._

_ **Silver strings.**_

_ Harry stopped breathing, staring at the other's soul until he felt an odd, brief pressure behind his eyes and realized that Voldemort had just used the connection in the same way Harry had. He saw through Harry's eyes._

_ One of the hands left his face, the other shifting to hold his chin tightly, and then Voldemort's wand was leveled at his head._

_ "Be at peace, Harry." Voldemort soothed. (Wrongwrong**wrong!**)_

_ "Obliviate."_

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** I have too much fun with this, I swear. We have ...four more chapters until the next Arc (so, four chapters and an interlude), and those next four chapters will probably be posted more rapid-fire. They all take place in a 1-2 day span, because the action's picking up. And next chapter, (or the one after, it _has_ been a while for me) there will be no more questions about where we are in the timeline :3

So. Tell me what you think?


	12. Chapter 10: Power Play

**A/N: **Bet you didn't expect another chapter so soon, did you? Well, I admit, I want this Arc to **end** so we can get to the fun part :3 There are three chapters and one interlude until the next Arc~

/-/-/-/-/

Chapter 10; Power Play

Harry's return to consciousness was sudden and violent, bringing with it acute situational awareness stemming from long months of near-total immobility. Terror set in at the same instant, registering something tied over his eyes -in a dark room- and restraints of some sort holding him tightly down. His chest felt constricted to the point that he could barely draw a deep breath.

"Let me up." Harry whispered weakly, voice hoarse and shaking but still demanding. _(He _wouldn't_ beg; he may have thought it before, but he would _never_ beg anything from that bastard!)_ "Let me up, let me up, let me _up_!" He tried to turn his head and found that a restraint ran across his forehead, preventing the movement. Anger burned through him, fierce and powerful.

"Let me UP!" After one last shout he started screaming, furious bloody murder; shrieks that would bring them running, if only to shut him up. Harry didn't care that they would probably knock him out, he would rather be unaware anyway. The worst things always happened when he had to be tied down first...

A bright light flicked on -barely visible through the dark material tied tightly over his eyes- and his bonds went totally slack. Harry rolled quickly away from what he somehow knew to be a person and suddenly found himself crashing down on a cold, hard floor. _(What? This wasn't stone...)_

The person was calling his name cautiously, an accented word he knew to be his name. Why? That voice was familiar, wasn't it? Who _was_ that? _(Why did he feel safe?)_

His chest still felt constricted, though he was no longer restrained. He shifted the tiniest bit -still on the floor, from where he fell off a ...bed?- and felt his inner arms brush some sort of cloth material wrapping his chest. Were those _bandages_? Where was his shirt..?

Harry blinked blearily and sat up, rolling his smarting shoulder absently. That was his ANBU, Sparrow. _Birdy_. He realized belatedly that at some point the magic had fled from his blindfold, reversing the charm, and _that_ was the dark material covering his eyes. He wove his magic through it and sighed in relief at his returned sight.

Harry shifted again to kneel on the floor, peeking over the edge of the mattress from his space between wall and bed, just as he had done however long ago when he met the Hokage. He saw his robe draped over the chair -though he was quite sure he hadn't had the chance to remove it before he'd collapsed- and the thick leather bands that had previously held him immobile on the bed. They were most definitely a new addition... One now cut and ruined, courtesy of the kunai-knife still held in Sparrow's hand.

"Birdy," Harry spoke slowly, fingering the bandages over his chest and noticing the sharp tenderness beneath them. "What happened?" He absently scented one of the thick straps hanging before him, but found only his, Birdy's and Healer's scents lingering. He was a little surprised that he hadn't destroyed them when he'd awoken, but as he recalled those first minutes of confusion his thoughts shied away from further contemplation.

_(It had never been that bad before, not since he'd... _escaped_. He had never tried to use his secret, his wandless magic to escape Voldemort's tortures... Never even tried. And the situation had _felt_ similar, even though it really hadn't been. It wasn't even a matter of his magic being otherwise occupied, just that he'd thought... He'd thought he was still a prisoner of the Dark Lord. And he couldn't escape that.)_

Sparrow didn't answer at first, and when he spoke it was only to insist that Harry sit on the bed and wait for Healer to come check him over. Harry narrowed unseen eyes but complied, confused enough about the situation to forego pressing the strangeness of Birdy's continued presence in his room. Most unusual, indeed. When it appeared the ANBU had no more to say, Harry took the time to check himself over.

Subtle use of magic just under the skin told Harry that something had breeched the skin of his arm, to the vein, and he supposed that he had been connected to the IV drip again, recently. The only other fresh injury was a large area of torn up skin and flesh directly centered on his chest. With his body's poor state of health, most notably his current lack of fat and muscle, the damage reached straight to bone. There were minor furrows on the _(curiously malleable) _bone in places, thin lines. He was healing, though: Some sort of salve had been applied, but it felt as if they hadn't tried to use chakra on him again... There was none of the lingering residue he'd felt from Healer's chakra when she'd fixed the stab wound.

Before he allowed himself to speculate wildly on the wound's origin, however, he needed to check something... A suspicion, one based somewhat on his newest memory. On remembered pain, and why Voldemort had found it necessary to restrain him, then.

He brought a hand close to his mouth, giving it no thought as his tongue flicked out, black fork-tips just barely swiping beneath sharp nails. Suspicion confirmed. Harry frowned, withdrawing his hand and absently licking chapped lips. Those wounds were self-inflicted; he could taste his own blood thickly caked beneath his..._claws_. The echo of that memory's pain had caused him to rip at his skin, over his soul's 'place' within him.

Harry pointedly did not think about what the newest memory implied, though it was very hard. For some reason he knew far more about soul manipulation that the little he could remember studying... _(Why... why had Voldemort said that? For all that he dipped his hands into Dark Magic, he'd never gone so far as to touch upon Soul Magic... not outside theory...)_

He looked up briefly when he felt Healer-ANBU enter the hall, felt her quicken her pace when she must have seen Sparrow was not outside the door. By the time she had entered his room, Harry had returned to scenting his person, a furrow forming between his brows. The pants he was wearing -uniform white, calf-length- were the same that they usually gave him, but they barely carried his scent at all, they were _not the same_. They had changed his clothes. They had _touched him_. The anger stirred in him again, cold this time, but Harry didn't allow it to show, pushing it away.

Harry looked up again silently and scented the air, noticing for the first time the cloud of fatigue that hung around Sparrow -as if he had not slept in a few days. The medic's previously fading apprehension had returned, as well. Hmm.

"What happened to me?" Harry asked again, this time aimed at the healer. He saw her take in the cut straps and look to Sparrow in question; Harry didn't bother trying to hide his sneer. "Come now, I thought you were a smart woman. I woke in a dark room, confused and restrained: What do you _think_ happened?" Something in his manner of speaking seemed to bother her, but she managed to look vaguely apologetic. Harry twitched at the farce of sympathy she wore so well.

She was prepared to tell him what he wanted, however. By keeping their eyes locked as she talked, Harry caught a bit of what she _wouldn't_ say.

"You collapsed almost immediately upon entering your room, and shortly thereafter began screaming. Nothing we could do would wake you... Sparrow-san managed to restrain you before you hurt yourself too badly." _'The lights were flickering.'_ "We had to make use of the straps to keep you from harming yourself further, as we had been advised by Yamanaka-san to forego administering any sedatives." Harry didn't need the little voice to tell him that the last part was added purely to bolster his trust in them; it was more than telling that the woman was even saying _this_ much to him. When not under orders otherwise, the shinobi were notoriously tightlipped around Harry.

"You remained unresponsive even after your fit had passed -" _'Didn't react at all when I had to cut off that shirt, or apply the bandages.'_ "- and remained unconscious for four days." _'All the equipment we tried to measure vital signs with went haywire and shorted out the minute they entered the room. We have to _assume_ you were unconscious and not brain-dead...'_

Nothing she said or thought -except, perhaps, that he had been out for four days- surprised Harry all that much. It was a well known fact throughout the Wizarding World that magic and electricity didn't mix. That caused some discontent among the more powerful muggleborns, as visiting home was made difficult when one constantly caused the television to short out. Harry himself had enjoyed expanding his aura during the night -when all the Dursley family slept- and causing their clocks to reset.

This didn't adequately explain Sparrow's fatigue and Healer's renewed apprehension, however. Harry tipped his hand; Inoichi _had_ wanted to know how aware he was... "Has something happened while I've been _asleep_?" He accused more than asked, and found himself more bitter still when they exchanged glances before Healer spoke again.

"I am not permitted to tell you." Harry was unable to catch her eye; she wouldn't look at his face any longer. "Hokage-sama intended to see you when you awoke. Perhaps he will answer your questions." She turned and nodded to Sparrow before she left the room, and immediately thereafter disappeared from his senses completely.

Birdy lingered for another moment; Harry caught a thought so clear it was as if the ANBU had spoken aloud. _'I hope, for your sake if nothing else, that this is all an unfortunate coincidence.' _He nodded in Harry's direction -something he had _never_ done before- and left to stand outside the door.

Well, _that_ wasn't ominous...

Harry shifted where he sat, feeling surprisingly good for not having moved in half a week. His shoulder was starting to bruise from his fall off the bed, he knew, but the ache was dull and not nearly enough to register as pain. More distracting were the constricting bandages wrapped over most of his chest.

Once he started picking at them they unraveled quickly enough. He pushed the pile of faintly bloodstained bandages aside and take in the damage with his eyes. Macabre. It appeared that the only reason some of the skin was still attached at all was the thick, greenish salve spread generously over the ...significantly large wound. The salve also appeared to inhibit bleeding, which was a damned good thing, because he knew that his blood clotted very poorly and it would've kept bleeding otherwise.

Head tilted down to better evaluate the damage, Harry was almost startled when his tongue seemed to act of its own accord and swiped gently over the edge of the wound, tasting the ointment. The paste had a distinctly herbal flavor. _(It was so difficult to be bothered about the inhuman traits his physical form showed -his actions, either- when he knew his soul was so much worse.) _He could clearly see the pinkish-white of his ribcage in places... Harry was almost disturbed by how _unbothered_ he was about the whole thing.

If left to heal how it was, though, it would scar horribly, and Harry knew immediately that he didn't want a physical reminder of that memory. Of what Voldemort had done to his soul. He started thinking of healing spells, and many came to mind -again, many he had no recollection of learning- but only one was sufficient for what he wanted: Near instantaneous healing that left no scars, though it supposedly felt like fire racing over raw nerves for some time afterwards.

It was nothing Madame Pomfrey would have ever used on a student. If a healing spell could be considered such... It was Dark.

He would use the spell, even if it clued the shinobi in on some of his power. It wasn't the _worst_ thing to do, though he had to prepare himself for some possibly awkward questions... Like why he hadn't healed himself of the wound that'd led to him coming to their hospital in the first place. _(And why hadn't he? Had he really been so ...out of it?)_ The only shame was there wasn't a spell that simply accelerated healing, -_There is,_ spoke the voice, quiet and muddled yet somehow still understandable. _It does not meet your needs; the skin is not intact enough to prevent scarring..._- which would be less daunting. There was no helping it, however; Harry refused to carry _that_ scar.

...Leaving Konoha wasn't looking so unattractive, his health being much improved. The only thing to do now was _eat_, to gain physical strength, which would take considerable time. He didn't _need_ to bother with tiptoeing around the shinobi anymore...

Harry dropped his head to one side, halting his thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself. The situation was still favorable for him; he should wait and see what the Hokage had to say. This place may still provide him with ..._entertainment_.

He sighed and absently tugged on a strand of his shoulder length hair, somewhat less unruly that it used to be -_("...and the soul, inhabiting a body not it's own -especially a _young_ body- will begin to affect the physical form of the new vessel to better fit its comfort, usually that of the soul's original body...")_- and tilted his head to the other side. Perhaps he could create his own entertainment. It couldn't be hard, with his unusual resemblance to 'Orochimaru'.

Harry giggled, tracing the torn edges of skin around the wound.

Maybe... play up the part of his so-called 'demon heritage'? Oh, yesss, that could be fun. Especially if he was allowed to mingle again, even if it was only among the shinobi. Would he rather terrify or impress the little genin? He'd had fun with Team Ten before Inoichi went and ruined it.

Harry allowed himself a smile, though it felt _strange_ and he quickly dropped the expression. He hoped they wouldn't be unreasonable. It would be much easier to ignore how _normal_ he felt -when he _knew_ he wasn't himself anymore, and most certainly _not_ normal- if he could distract his thoughts with the company of others. Humans had so much more going on in their lives than snakes, even if the snakes liked him better than the shinobi did...

Two new presences entered the hallway as Harry was wiping the excess ointment off his grisly wound and onto the discarded bandages; he instantly recognized them as Inoichi and the Hokage. They knocked on the door before entering -Harry was again pleasantly surprised by Inoichi's courtesy, even if was still annoyed with the man- though Harry only acknowledged them by wiping his long fingers on the leg of his pants and tilting his head up infinitesimally.

He was sharply reminded that the old Hokage had not actually _seen_ his scars as he watched the dark eyes scrutinize him: They started at the open wound spanning the center of his chest, then to his throat, arms, and his sides before finally landing firmly on his blindfold. Harry once more found himself unwilling to read the old man's mind _(why did he _hate_, so? Why so much _anger_?)_, so instead focused his attention on the Hokage's expression. Sad eyes and lips pressed together, likely in disapproval -though of his condition or the removal of his bandages, or even something else entirely Harry didn't know.

Yamanaka spoke first, with a sigh. "Why did you remove your bandages?" It served well to break the ice, and though this was obviously an important meeting the blond looked ready to get the medic-nin right then and there.

"I don't need them," Harry said blandly, and forestalled any objection by silently, motionlessly, casting the healing spell. In a matter of seconds the injury -larger than one splayed, long fingered hand could cover- had knit itself closed, leaving no sign that Harry had been hurt in the first place. Harry grit his teeth and hissed out a short breath, but otherwise ignored the searing pain that started up.

Both shinobi wore expressions blank from shock as Harry finished wiping the salve off intact, unmarked skin. Inoichi's thoughts were muddled; of all the hidden powers he'd expected Harry to have, healing certainly wasn't one of them. It didn't make sense: If he could heal such a wound without a mark, why did he carry so many scars? The men unfroze -Inoichi cast an indecipherable glance at the Hokage, and Harry became sure they were following some sort of protocol this time- and it was again the interrogator that spoke to him as the Hokage observed silently.

"Why did you not heal yourself before?" Harry thought the blond was starting to learn that the answers he received were less likely to be cryptic if his questions were straightforward. Harry would always appreciate honest questions (almost as much as honest answers), though he knew himself well enough to admit -if only in his head- that he lied quite often, even if only by omission. Being a hypocrite didn't bother him in the least.

"Before? When this was open?" Harry gestured vaguely at the vivid scar left from the near-fatal kunai stab, not really thinking, pointedly _ignoring_ the thoughts that tried to creep in. "Or, _before_?" He ghosted claws along the angry bite scars. Harry knew full well that Inoichi meant all his scars, all his old injuries; he took pleasure in dragging questions out of the interrogator, though, and knew it annoyed Inoichi even if it never showed.

He realized his slip too late, and almost cringed in his stupidity. By separating the kunai wound from the others he confirmed it was inflicted after he was 'exiled'. Inoichi made a mental note of it, and though he didn't make Harry elaborate on the circumstances that led him to being hit with a kunai -at that moment-, Harry knew better than to be thankful. It would be brought up the next time they 'spoke', when the Hokage's business with him was done.

"_Both_, if you please." Harry didn't like the sharpness in the man's tone. It was troubling to him that Inoichi had become so familiar with him that he would play Harry's game, even while as stressed as he must be. Because Inoichi _was_ stressed; Harry could _taste_ it. _(Ohh, he could make that undue familiarity cease quickly enough; all he had to do was quit that little censor that tenuously restrained the malicious mania lurking just behind his eyes... Oh, the things he would _say_...)_

"I don't _please_, Inoichi." Harry said slowly, and choked down a hysterical giggle; if he would've had a more fun audience to play, he might've continued that with _"Unless you __**really**__ want me to."_ But he didn't. "I... didn't consider healing it. A friend sacrificed their life to protect mine. I kept it to honor their memory." Inoichi was visibly surprised that Harry continued to speak, and did not interrupt. Harry, somewhat maliciously, _hoped_ they would ask about his 'friend'; he knew they were curious, for he had already said before that he was exiled alone.

"The rest... Healing was not an option. I couldn't." Harry focused his gaze -intense even while obscured- on the Hokage. "It is a _secret_." His voice, which had been distant and lilting from the beginning, turned low and flat. It was a disconcerting sound to come from the mouth of a 'child', regardless of how young the shinobi trained their children to kill. "Do you know what he would have done to me, had he realized that I could heal myself? That he didn't need to be so _careful_?" Harry laughed bitterly. "No, healing never even crossed my mind."

By the time he had been removed from his cell, Harry had buried the knowledge of his wandless magic so deeply that it wasn't even an option to use, even if he _had_ known any of the healing spells he _somehow_ knew now. _(Don't think about it, don't do it, it'll only hurt more if you _think about it_.)_ He hadn't remembered the ability until spells started flying in the Ministry, and it was a good thing. Otherwise, Voldemort would have simply stolen his secret right from his head _(like he had everything else)_.

At least one of the men in his room was unnerved; Harry could _smell _it. When the silence was broken, it was by the Hokage, the first time the man spoke to Harry since the day of his arrival in Konoha.

Thankfully, he didn't start with pointless small-talk, perhaps detecting how unwelcome it would be at the moment. "Did you lie when last asked your purpose in Konoha?" He sounded grave, no, worse than grave. Something _big_ must have happened while Harry was incapacitated.

Harry thought back through the mists and murk to his first day, and what he had answered to the leader's initial questions, and then shook his head. "Nothing to lie about. I would still be safe, in the forest, if your men hadn't taken me away. " The old man nodded, but Harry saw clearly that he wasn't satisfied by the answer, not at all.

"If you lied to us, what would be the reason? Hypothetically." Harry frowned; this was starting to sound... bad. A quick glance at Inoichi -though he was silent- told him that some of his twisting of the truth hadn't been bought, and it was casting even _more_ doubt on everything else he said. (So what; they were right for suspecting that he'd fought in his country's civil war, though they still didn't know _how_... How obnoxious.)

"I would lie..." Harry contemplated, rubbing at dry eyes through the blindfold as he seriously considered the question. He would have to answer with a _real_ truth... "If I thought the truth too outstanding for you to believe." He quirked his lips in a failed attempt at a smile. "Hypothetically, of course. Why should I lie to you?"

That amused Inoichi more that it did the Hokage, though both continued to look grim. Something made Harry think that his luck was changing tides again, but the worrisome part was he couldn't _tell_ if he was experiencing the good or bad at the moment. There was too much going on over his head for him to see the whole picture. To _know_.

The old man -dressed in white robes that should make him look noble, but instead only served to magnify his weariness- looked at Harry and sighed. It was a sigh that sounded of a hard decision made. Dumbledore had sighed like that when Harry told -not asked, _told_- him that he would be rid of Voldemort his own way. That sigh was the acceptance of wielding a double-edged blade, knowing full well that more harm than good may be done but taking the chance anyway.

Quiet desperation.

Had Harry truly been the child he now appeared to be, the offer the Hokage then made him would have been seen as a gift from the heavens. One of the best rewards he could have been given; the perfect balm for soothing his soul and calming his overtaxed mind. There it was, a chance to return to the Tower, to the Forest -called by the shinobi 'Training Ground 44: The Forest of Death'- whenever he desired it, and then afterwards be allowed contact with _human beings_ other than his ANBU and the interrogator. Still supervised, of course, but not so _restricted_.

It sounded too good to be true, and Harry had learned (a few too many times) that things that sounded too good usually _were_. It was cynical of him, but he had earned the right to think that way.

Harry smiled anyway, small, but the most sincere since before Sirius had died. For once, he could ensure he got the best out of a deal. He had to keep reminding himself that he was in a world not his own. A nobody. An unknown. _He could leave whenever he wanted_. The shinobi could not block his apparation: If he wanted to -or _had_ to- leave, it was as simple as apparating back to the little village and walking in the opposite direction...

Harry realized he had been silent for quite a long time, though if either of the men were impatient they hid it well. "I would like that." He told the Hokage quietly, and then said no more, asked no more questions. To let him have so much 'freedom' when they were obviously suspicious of him... More so than before, even... Harry had become quite adept at telling when someone was trying to use him. Either they were trying to cement his loyalty or they were going to use his presence to achieve something. _(Maybe they had already tried; letting him out to play with Team Ten was still _too_ suspicious.)_

It mattered little.

The Hokage eventually left, and Harry was vaguely amused to realize that his wandering thoughts and difficulty keeping track of time sometimes made it hard to keep a conversation going. It assuredly didn't help that between his nearly motionless state, blindfold and general unwillingness to speak, his 'minders' couldn't even tell he was awake.

Huh. Harry wondered if they had realized just how rarely it was that he actually _slept_ at all. Maybe a half-dozen times since he'd been in Konoha, and those were only nightmare-ridden naps.

Inoichi lingered. Without waiting for Harry's acknowledgement he took his customary place in the chair at the foot of the bed, paying no mind to robe draped over the back. A focused look into pupil-less eyes revealed that the man was aware of Harry demanding the events of the passed four days from Healer, as was the Sandaime. The Yamanaka had been given permission to disclose some of the information... as a show of trust. The interrogator didn't like the implied order, even if he would obey his leader with complete loyalty.

He didn't want Harry to know this.

Harry almost wanted to grin. He instead loosened the tight grip his arms had around his knees _(when had he folded himself into a ball again?)_. "What _happened_, Inoichi? Healer is nervous like when she first saw me... And Birdy smells dead on his feet. Why is he not sleeping?"

Inoichi didn't seem surprised that Harry had noticed these things -he seemed to have suspected Harry had a more keen sense of awareness for the people around him than one would expect- but he _was_ pleasantly surprised with how lucid he was at the moment. Harry tilted his head and frowned at the mildly appraising look that Inoichi shot his way, silently demanding an answer.

"Konoha is hosting the Chuunin Exams, where genin teams from our village and countries allied with us are tested in order for individuals to be promoted in rank." Inoichi didn't need to be asked to begin with an elaboration on supposedly 'common knowledge'. Harry hadn't had a problem telling him from the beginning that he knew nothing about shinobi, secretly amused by the dumbstruck look on the man's face when he thought about it. "One of the Konoha's most dangerous enemies has made himself known, having infiltrated the Exam..." He trailed off, his eyes darkening. Harry hummed curiously and licked his lips: For some reason the action was mildly distressing to the blond, though he subsequently continued.

"You happen to boast a striking resemblance to the man." The interrogator was watching him carefully, eyes locked onto his face, waiting for a reaction. "His name is Orochimaru." Harry didn't so much as twitch.

"Do I?" Harry asked curiously, clamping down tightly on the amusement that wanted to bubble forth; so they _finally_ say something. How... _deliciously_ fun. "It makes me wonder, then, why your village would care for someone who so resembles its enemy." Face blank, he tilted his head forward slightly, hiding the non-expression behind his hair. "It could also make one... _suspicious_ of your intentions."

Maintaining eye contact had been a very good thing. Otherwise, Harry would have remained oblivious to the thoughts that Inoichi would _never_ voice. The interrogator could read people very well -it ran in his blood- even without having to breech their mind. He also knew the Hokage -_Sarutobi Hiruzen, Sandaime Hokage, 'God of Shinobi'_- and had his suspicions about the leader's unspoken intentions. Orochimaru had been the old man's student, and when a student goes bad the teacher most always feel guilt... and Orochimaru had been the Sandaime's _favorite_ student. The Yamanaka felt that Harry's appearance -the unknown, tortured son of Orochimaru- gave Sarutobi the chance to make amends by proxy. To Orochimaru, for failing him as a sensei, and the village of Konoha, for setting loose a monster.

The Sandaime Hokage carried much guilt.

Not that the Yamanaka would ever say so. Not even under torture.

"Even if you are related to him-" Inoichi couldn't fathom Harry _not_ being somehow related to the Snake Sannin. "- Sandaime-sama believes that you should have the opportunity to prove your intention." Harry blinked.

"I have no intention." Harry answered with furrowed brows, a bit confused when he realized that he had spoken the complete truth. No intentions. No goals. There were 'maybes' and 'possibilities' but they were only _reactions_ to what the shinobi _could_ do.

No goals. He didn't know what to do. What _could_ he do? There were no books of magic to study, no Dark Lord that he had to defeat. No friends, either, no one to protect and call his own...

He dropped his chin to rest on his knees, eyes angled towards Inoichi still, but no longer really paying attention. He could try to create new spells, but what was the point? Harry could recognize it now; his magic had changed, behaved differently than before. Then, it had been like an energy he could manipulate, but only by tugging on strings to produce a result... Like controlling a marionette. Now though, it felt like just another limb to control, so much _closer_ than before.

Like... instead of being tied _to_ his soul, it was now more a _part_ of it. Maybe... holding his soul together, even?

Was he even a Wizard anymore? With absolutely no need for a wand -a focus- to perform feats of magic beyond even Voldemort, even Dumbledore... Hell, the wandless Killing Curse he used even before he changed through the Veil was his proof of power. Thinking of the change in his magic bothered him more than any of his physical changes, though perhaps the only other ...person... who could understand was the Dark Lord himself.

It was because the body, the flesh, was temporary; it was only a vessel to house the soul. In wizards, the soul and magic were bound, and to have the magic torn away left a tortured, weak soul. But the soul was _immortal_, and thus was the magic. The vessel is mortal and ever-changing -thus, something so _small_ as a complete form change was no bother to one who truly _cherished_ magic- but something immortal _was not meant to change_.

At least he _had_ his magic, though. He was lucky for it to be so easy, to still have access to his birthright power without need of a focus. It would have been more than tragic to survive everything only to land in this world of ninja stripped of the thing he loved most.

He might have just killed himself, had that happened...

Harry startled when Inoichi spoke to him, so lost in his musings he was. "What are you thinking about?" The perceptive blond had noticed Harry's slight, troubled frown.

"Home." Harry lied easily. "The people who were once my... allies." Maybe one day he would speak of magic _(maybe if he ever learned their word for it...)_, but that day was not today.

"Allies, in the past tense. Because you are no longer there to ally with them?" He didn't voice it, but thoughts of Orochimaru and how likely it was that being a traitor ran through the blood passed behind pale green eyes. The interrogator had the gall to assume that Harry had betrayed the people who he'd once called allies (friends, the Light...).

Harry bared his fangs angrily, unable to stop himself. "I quit calling them my allies when they failed to save me from the Dark Lord, when they left me with him for _eight months_." His accent had become more pronounced as he fought not to slip into Parseltongue. "They had a spy in the Dark Lord's ranks; I knew him. I _saw_ him. He could have freed me." Harry still couldn't understand why Snape hadn't saved him early on. He knew that at least twice it had been the Potion's Master that had come to his cell.

Inoichi didn't know what to make of the information -all of it was new to him. Harry never spoke very specifically about his imprisonment. Taking advantage of Harry's dwindling lucidity, he asked the most obvious question.

"Who is the Dark Lord?" Harry smiled an ugly parody of a smile, maniacal and all fang.

"Who _was_ the Dark Lord." Harry corrected vindictively. "A sick, insane fucker who wasn't quite immortal enough."

(_A horcrux is quite useless if the soul's magic is stolen first..._ mused the voice...)

Inoichi frowned thoughtfully, though something like panic lit his eyes at the mention of immortality. "This 'Lord' was the leader of your enemies, the ones who banished you?" Harry had to wonder how the interrogator managed to remember the nuances of the story Harry told him; as far as _he_ could remember, he'd only told the blond the circumstances of his 'banishment' once, on the first day.

"Mm-hmm." Harry agreed vaguely, rubbing a phantom ache over his heart, though the burning sensation of his spell had stopped some minutes ago...

"Did you kill him?" Harry frowned slightly at the curious tone, but nodded an affirmative anyway. There was no reason to hide that, not with what they suspected already. "How?"

Inoichi was still curious -not at all skeptical of Harry's claim- thought his thoughts were concerned. The 'Dark Lord' was the leader of the more ruthless side of that unknown country's civil war; a powerful and terrifying figure, apparently. If _Harry_, even in such a weakened state, had killed someone like that than perhaps more time should be spent keeping the boy content. Konoha needed no more enemies, and if this boy grew _near_ the potential his _father_ held... It could be catastrophic. And he wasn't even a _shinobi_.

Harry blinked and detached himself from the fringes of Inoichi's mind, pleasantly surprised; he mentally erased one of the strikes tallying points against Konoha. Apparently appeasing Harry was more appealing to them -Konoha, the Sandaime, whichever- than simply killing him. It kept him benign enough that Harry felt reluctant, rather than angry, to continue speaking about the ..._sensitive_ topic.

It still took him a moment to know exactly what he wanted to say. "He let his guard down. Underestimated me. Thought he'd broken me so far that I was no danger to him." Harry knew Inoichi wanted to know more; what sort of 'technique' he used -or method, barring that- but that was a secret he wouldn't share. It was enough that Harry gave him the underhanded warning about what happened to people who 'underestimated' him... Like the shinobi were.

No one needed to know that the Dark Lord's power was his... as was his soul. Harry shuddered violently and rubbed at his chest, another phantom pain appearing at the thought.

Inoichi said no more, though Harry _saw_ that he was thinking hard on everything that had been said, and some things that carefully _hadn't_ been. The interrogator made a mental checklist. Eight months as a prisoner of war, kept to be made an example of -apparently because of his parentage, though that was questionable. Psychological tortures more than physical -Harry had more than once spoken about total sensory deprivation, his 'dark cell'- with the solid certainty that the damage to his mind was far greater than that to his body.

The Yamanaka understood better, now, from what Harry revealed. Just from the way he'd said things: _"Do you know what __**he**__ would have done to me, had he realized that I could heal myself? That he didn't need to be so _**careful**_?"_ (A terrible statement to hear from anyone, much less someone so young... All those scars, and that was '_careful_'?) and _"Thought __**he'd**__ broken me..."_. The grim picture had been painted. The 'he' was most certainly this 'Dark Lord', who _personally_ inflicted the tortures Harry experienced.

In the way of things, the killing could be personally justifiable; no shinobi he knew would argue against a case like it, if it were ever presented to them. An inflictor of prolonged torture -not even for the sake of extracting information, apparently- with the purpose of severe dehumanization, of completely obliterating any _will_ at all... (One who had apparently taken to rape as a frequent tool, as the -strangely, carefully healed- scars discovered by the medic indicated. _(And now with that suspicion confirmed, it made so much more sense why they had to wait until the boy was comatose to do a proper exam...)_). The 'Dark Lord' was struck down by the one he'd tormented too much, yet not managed to break completely. It was _revenge_.

It took Harry a few seconds to unravel the faint undertones of Inoichi's thoughts, and then a few more to comprehend, but when he did there wasn't enough time to clamp down on the emotions that welled in reaction. _Angerhatefear_. That medic, she'd done more than change his clothes and bandage his wound; she had _touched_ him.

Harry clenched his teeth tightly as he stared hard at his knees, long fingers curling into fists and sharp nails tearing holes where they caught on the sheet. The overhead light dimmed and flickered; if it hadn't only been a fraction of this power manifesting than the bulb would have certainly shattered. The reminder that most of his magic was currently inaccessible only made him angrier.

"Harry!" The exclamation was almost harsh, as if Inoichi had only barely halted himself from _ordering_ Harry to stop. Not a hint of surprise at the manifestation. _(What? No fear from it? Whywhywhy?)_

Harry growled and shot an unseen -although likely not unfelt- glare at the blond, but nonetheless complied with the unspoken order, the light returning to normal as he pulled his magic back in. Both his jaw and his fingers cracked when he loosened them, and the noise was jarring in the silence that had fallen in his room.

His anger still simmered deeply, restlessly. He wanted to do something; what, what though? An idea wavered and clicked, and Harry refocused on Inoichi with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. He had to say it, had to get it out... Maybe if he said it he wouldn't want to _do_ it...

"There is a technique back home, that only the Dark Lord and his minions dare use." He saw Inoichi tense, though he didn't even try to glimpse the blond man's mind, sick of his thoughts. "It is Unforgivable, called 'The Torture Curse'. Do you want to know about it?"

Harry knew that look; the wary, apprehensive face the interrogator wore. He used to wear it, when he first started reading about Dark spells: He didn't really _want_ to know, but he _had_ to.

Harry continued, voice lilting in a way that completely contradicted what he said. "It is a torture that leaves no mark on it's own, nothing physical, anyway. It feels... like white-hot knives are lancing every inch of your skin... Like molten steel is slowly replacing your bones; pain beyond anything..." _(Unless, of course, you've ever experienced your soul being torn, tainted...)_

Inoichi had actually paled some, looking at Harry with a new understanding. Harry didn't correct him, didn't say that he hadn't actually felt the bite of the Cruciatus curse since _before_ he was captured... He continued speaking, uninterrupted.

"After a couple minutes the internal bleeding usually starts, and the... _recipient_ starts bleeding from all orifices. Old wounds sometimes re-open. The longer the Curse is held the worse the damage, and the longer the tremors last after it is released...

"Can you guess what happens if the Curse is held too long, Inoichi?" At some point Harry had shifted and was sitting on his knees, leaning towards the interrogator. The blond made no move to answer, didn't even attempt, but Harry continued on heedless.

"_Insanity_." he hissed, sounding very much like the snake he knew himself to be.

Inoichi exhaled a weary sigh. Harry only half listened when the man told him he was leaving, that sometime before the day ended one of the ANBU would be taking him to the Tower. _(Oh? He wasn't even _trying_ to present it as a choice anymore: They _would_ take Harry to the Tower, whether he wanted to go or not.)_

Alone in his room -dim, but not dark enough...- Harry seethed quietly. The anger wasn't gone yet, and talking about _it_ hadn't made him want to stop... Because he knew what he wanted to do, but he _couldn't_, not now...

He wanted to cast an Unforgivable; the Torture Curse. The Cruciatus.

_Crucio_.

"I don't feel like myself," Harry told the empty room musingly, almost mournfully.

He felt the question inside his head, though he could no longer 'hear' the voice, not even the garbled sounds of the previous time. It asked _"Who do you feel like?"_.

"Voldemort." Harry answered himself with certainty, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, trying to alleviate the pressure.

A smile curled at the edges of his lips and Harry started to laugh; high and cold and more than a bit hysterical.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** *grin* A couple things to think about: The main character is Harry. One of the categories is Drama, not Angst. I don't have the most appropriate meter for angst, apparently, but I rated this story as I did because of the _rest_ of it. So, in other words, **this is the low point**. Angst Arc. It can only get better after that :3

Now, I bet you're wondering how Harry can 'bond' with anyone after... well, the above. Thinking about it makes it interesting, doesn't it? XP Tell me what you think~ I'm going to run away and start working on the next chapter now... And those curious can find daily updates on progress at the top of my author page.


	13. Chapter 11: Singular Duality

**A/N:** Hey look, another chapter already XP This is what happens when I'm sufficiently motivated, and left in the house alone! So, after this there are two more chapters and then an interlude, and then the next Arc. (And yes, I have in fact been treating that like a countdown in my head :D)

/-/-/-/-/

Chapter 11; Singular Duality

Harry calmed himself before his exhausted ANBU, Birdy, could become too unsettled by his laughter; it was both easier and more challenging than it should have been. For someone so stoic, a lot seemed to bother the guard wherever Harry was concerned: Laughter, prolonged silence, the times Harry would _watch_ him, pacing, Harry's accent, and also the time or two he'd caught Harry talking to himself...

Sighing, Harry swung his legs to dangle off the side of the bed, staring intently at the closed door. He could almost imagine the painted animal mask staring back at him... Harry snorted. What a useless, fanciful thought. Of course he knew Sparrow was watching the door –it was his job. _(Don't think about Inoichi's job, or Healer's. Don't think about what they knew or what they _thought _they knew.)_

Bare feet slid to gently rest on the cool, tiled floor and Harry wondered why he felt so... _strong_, after being unconscious so long. It took a moment for the barest suggestion of thought to makes itself known _(an idea that shouldn't have occurred to him at all)_: He had gone so long without proper sleep –about two years where sleep averaged no more that an hour a day– that exhaustion was the norm, and he had adapted to it. With no more visions to interrupt his rest there was a good chance he would continue to sleep, to get stronger. Return to an approximation of _normal_.

Harry laughed a laugh that was more like a cackle. No, not normal. Never normal again. The damage was done; he was still Harry, but he felt like Voldemort, too. He should have expected it, there were more than enough clues; with both the man's (monster's, creature's) magic and soul –even now he could feel the soul contamination. _(Oh, he must have the knowledge, too. The force he felt blocking him from clearly remembering the ritual Voldemort subjected him to was thinning. Soonsoonsoon...)_

The door slid open easily under his hand. "Hello, Birdy." Harry greeted quietly from the threshold of his room. _(This ninja was the favorite, the unmoving and the unchanging.) _He got a curt nod in response, and it was with some curiosity that Harry again observed that the ANBU's posture displayed none of the fatigue that the man reeked of. Did ninja train to function on little sleep?

Harry hummed to himself and made his way to the restroom, Birdy trailing a short distance behind him. If he weren't so used to the man's presence he probably would have felt very uncomfortable then –he was without a shirt and had forgone bringing along his robe. _Exposed_. But Sparrow was an almost comfortable presence now; everything would be fine as long as the man didn't try to touch him. Bad things would happen, then. Voldemort had never tolerated anyone entering his personal space, and Harry disliked human contact as a rule, and had since he was very young._ (Wave the thought aside; it wasn't important enough to dwell on...) _

The door closed quietly behind him, and Harry made a beeline to the shower stall. Barely taking the half a moment necessary to rid himself of the hospital-issue pants, Harry stood under a stream of water hot enough to redden his skin on contact. He hissed through his teeth at the burn, but stubbornly stayed under the onslaught of near-boiling water, only turning it to a more comfortable temperature when he was satisfied that his skin had been thoroughly scoured. _(It was easier to visualize the vestiges of hot anger washing away when it went with the burning water…)_

Harry sighed and slumped to the floor of the stall, cheek against the cool, tiled wall. The warm water felt very nice, and was cleansing in a more soothing way than purely hot water. He knew he could probably get away with Cleaning Charms with none the wiser, but there was something so much more satisfying about bathing manually...

And at the moment, Cleaning Charms still had negative connotations for Harry anyway; one had always coming before a session with Voldemort, where purity of body was almost as important as the magic itself. _(Stop. Shunt that line of thought away as well. It was unnecessary.)_

Harry stared blankly at the wall, and only after a few minutes did he become aware of his fingers tracing his scars lightly. He was suddenly alarmed. The dwindling part that was still purely him –still untouched by the other soul becoming _part_ of him– worried; would he feel the urge to do to others as the Dark Lord had done to him? His face twisted into a snarl at the notion.

Almost as soon as his thought was done, a wave of disgust and denial blew strongly through him, close but not quite his own; just like the voice no longer had to speak, everything was easier to understand now. _(_Stop_. Don't _think_ about it; thinking about it would bring the worst to light...)_

"No," Harry murmured, pressing his forehead with his palm, brows furrowed. "I was a ...special case. Everything had a purpose..." There was no chance of stopping the new memory as it shot forth, dragging Harry under—

_A beam of light cut through the cold, consuming darkness. Harry –prone with exhaustion on the icy, dirt floor– squinted at the brightness and saw burning, crimson embers in the thin shadow outside the door. The red-eyed shadow didn't move, but the light it cast was almost as cold as the darkness it banished._

_ Harry turned his head and bit hard into the arm he'd used as a pillow, only _just_ aware of the strange pressure he felt by doing so, and rubbed his cheek over the spot to spread the warmth. He licked his lips and savored the way his throat was soothed by the same liquid warmth. A moment –an eternity– later he pressed his lips to the spot –the warmth welled up and ran– and bit again before the shadow spoke._

_ It hissed his name and Harry froze with his teeth still deep to the gums in his flesh, eyes drifting back up to the red embers and finding them much closer. The shadow was white and frail, yet still somehow darker than the cold darkness crawling in the corners (**waiting to pounce and steal and devour his warmth**)._

_ The pale shadow touched his face with icy fingers, stealing the warmth from his lips and making Harry shudder. Darker than Darkness. It tasted his warmth and stood, going back to the door._

_ "Leave us, Lucius." it commanded. "Close the hall and ensure we remain uninterrupted. Failure falls on **your** head."_

_ "Yes, my Lord." murmured a voice, and the sound of receding footsteps echoed in the stone hall. The door swung shut with a resounding _boom_; a sphere of dim light flew from the shadow to hover near the ceiling._

_ "My Death Eaters have had to heal you twice in as many days," said the shadow, still at his side and trailing icy fingers over new, tender marks on his arms. "They would not have healed you unless the alarm sounded... Meaning, you were dying."_

_ Harry blinked at the pale shadow, wondering if it would give him any warmth if he bit it. (Maybe; shadow crimson eyed, crimson hot warm fire **blood**.) Burning red eyes narrowed and the pale shadow sighed, standing and drawing a soft colored wand from its sleeve._

_ Harry made a small noise of complaint when he was forced to roll onto his back, but was too weak to do much else. The shadow stood over him, wand leveled at Harry's chest, and started a chant in a language Harry could almost recognize but didn't know. As the waves of power rose and fell –like the tides of the sea– the shadow drew invisible patterns in the air. On the floor. On Harry. On the shadow itself._

_ The chant stopped but the magic lingered, pulsing in time with the two synchronized heartbeats in the little cell. The magic shocked Harry into a state of almost-awareness –just aware **enough** to realize that **Voldemort** was pointing a wand at him._

_ The light dimmed until the only thing visible was the faint glow of Voldemort's crimson eyes above him._

_ He wasn't so numb from the icy chill of the cell to be oblivious when the Dark Lord's equally cold hands touched him. Red eyes closed, and he heard a long, slow sigh; when they opened they were much closer, and the look in them had... **changed**. Harry tensed._

_ The whispers started. "Shh, relax Harry, this doesn't have to hurt so much..." The whispers didn't stop.—_

Harry's return to awareness was smooth, and unsurprisingly found him lying curled on the floor of the stall, warm water gathering in a noisy puddle around him. He pushed himself up, swaying slightly when he stood, and the puddle swirled down the drain he'd been blocking. Breathing deep, Harry stuck his head back under the spray and began analyzing the memory, consciously trying to tap the knowledge that used to be Voldemort's. _(Press against the barrier, feel the weakness, feel the cracks; is its failing good or bad..?)_

The information shot through the thinning barrier as readily as the memory had, with another wave of emotions that weren't-quite-his. The feelings gave Harry the impression that this had been "the best way"; the _only_ way to achieve his outcome without involving an external force. A self-reliant solution.

The knowledge Harry received was of a ritual –obscure even in the time of the Founders– that caused the life force of two, or more, people to be mixed. It resulted in making the participants _that much_ harder to kill; or, what Voldemort had intended, making it nearly impossible for Harry to _die_. _(What were the chances of someone killing Voldemort, when the Prophecy said that only _Harry _could?)_

As for the reason such a useful ritual was so obscure? It was an obscene mix of Blood and Sex magics... one that required a blood relation between participants. _(And how fortuitous, that they _were_ after Voldemort's resurrection...)_ For the effects of the ritual to stay, the contributors had to ingest the other's blood no less than once a week, and engage in intercourse every three. No spells could be used to alter the state of either person while the ritual was engaged –such as the Imperius Curse or a compulsion charm– but the ritual made no distinction between consenting or no.

Harry closed his eyes _(ignore it)_ and prodded for more information, but learned little else. The chant was a bastard version of Gaelic, and Voldemort came by it when he was still known as Tom Riddle and wandering somewhere in Albania, where there was a strong family nearly as inbred as the Gaunts...

Oh. _Oh_. Eww, disgusting! Shoo, bad images, bad!

Harry sighed and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. What Voldemort did to him was vile and inexcusable, but for whatever reason it made Harry feel better that there was a _reason_ he did it. In a sick sort of way –which he attributed the understanding of due to the 'Voldemort' parts of his soul, and pointedly ignored his _own_ comprehension– the implications of the ritual were almost... _pleasing_. The Dark Lord didn't want Harry to die, and was willing to exchange blood –the most guarded and potent magical substance– in order to ensure he stayed alive. _(Someone was willing to give almost as much as _he_ was, to protect his _own_.)_

Even if the reason was strictly selfish _(Harry recognized he was a powerful 'asset' to be in possession of)_, Harry _knew_ Voldemort would never have given blood to even _one_ of his Death Eaters. It was still ironic to him, that Voldemort had gone from trying to kill him to doing everything within his considerable power to keep Harry from dying.

Hmm. Maybe the tying of their life forces was just another contributing factor to the odd situation he found himself in after passing through the Veil. Harry knew well enough that the strands of Voldemort's soul within his own had been quiescent until quite recently. Come to think of it, Harry hadn't started to hear a voice in his head until _after_ Bellatrix threw him into the Veil...

Ahh, such was his life. It must have been his unholy luck again.

Harry finished washing up and shut off the taps, doing a cursory check of his magic before he stepped out. He paused momentarily at sensing a second (familiar?) presence outside the door with Sparrow, but ignored it as they didn't seem to be a threat. In a fleeting moment of curiosity, Harry wrapped a nearby towel around his shoulders and drifted over to the mirror. It was a new mirror to replace the one he'd broken, and had a layer of clear plastic shielding it: He had the mad urge to break it, but managed to restrain himself. _(He still wanted to, but there was no point. He had to tell himself that: If there was _no point_ than he shouldn't _do_ it.)_

He tilted his head as he eyed his reflection dubiously. Every once in a while he would pick up stray thoughts, and today Inoichi's mind had stated that Harry had been in their hospital for _six weeks_, now. Six weeks. Harry didn't see any difference; he still looked just as skeletal as he had at the start, though perhaps not as strained. He hadn't gained anything in the way of weight, yet, but that probably had more to do with them only feeding him _broth_. He wanted meat. _(Maybe a mouse...)_

He'd given up any hope of his skin color changing from the unhealthy, chalky white; it was probably a carry-over trait from either a ritual or Voldemort's magic or soul. He just wished his scars would fade some, as the color of his skin made even the faintest of them remarkably obvious.

Harry locked onto serpentine, yellow eyes, lazily half-lidded and ringed with striking deep purple. One of these days he'd have to find a way to show them off without making the people drop like flies. He had grown rather fond of them _(he missed his old eyes, though, and the reminder of the mother he never knew)_, and he was getting more than a little perturbed with having to wear that bloody blindfold...

He frowned agitatedly and turned his attention to the small cabinet that stood beside the shower; the usual place they kept a change of clothes for him, but not so this time. Harry blinked in confusion at the strange variety of clothes left inside for him to freely choose from, none of which were the plain white scrubs he had become accustomed to.

Harry dried himself and picked through the selection of garments offered, and though it felt ..._strange_ that they'd sought out clothes to fit his currently unusual measurements, he shunted those thoughts away. He avoided bright colors (really, there was a neon-orange shirt; who wears _orange_?) or clothes he couldn't imagine wearing anyway (mesh? what in the world..?), and eventually wound up in a long-sleeved charcoal shirt with a wide collar and a loose pair of dull green pants. If they wanted to clothe him in something other than hospital garb, well, who was he to argue? _(But he always wanted to argue... Why not now?)_

Harry stood and grabbed his blindfold from the floor, tying it securely and checking in the mirror... and then huffed disdainfully and re-tied it so his damp hair hung over the knot and most of the cloth altogether. Tiresome. When the Konoha shinobi stopped watching him so closely _(Yeah, how likely was _that_?)_ he _would_ find a better solution for his eye problem.

There was a firm knock on the door. "Harry?" Sparrow's voice called, almost cautiously. Hmm. Well, he _had_ been rather quiet for a while. Silly paranoid ANBU...

Harry opened the door and leaned casually against the jamb. "Hello again, Birdy," His tongue flicked out languidly and he turned his attention to the other masked man. Yes, familiar, another of the _small_ rotation of ANBU that watched him. And more... "Hello, other-ANBU-from-the-Tower. Are you to take me back?"

Something seemed to amuse the man; Harry _saw_ quickly that it was the nickname he'd given to his favorite ANBU. All the (very few) people 'in the know' about Harry's presence knew about the nickname, but the man found it amusing to hear in person. The elite shinobi, Sparrow, renown for the accuracy of his kill shots... called Birdy. Hah.

The other ANBU didn't seemed surprised that Harry recognized him from six weeks earlier, either. Harry had made it a point –even in he could _detect_ his other guards– to only ever interact with, and be seen _by_, Birdy.

"I will be, yes, after we go to your room and get the rules for this visit laid down." Ah, figures.

Harry shrugged and they adjourned to his room; both men came in after him but the door was left open, and they conspicuously avoided crowding into his personal space. So they _could_ be trained –how delightful. Though the situation did feel strange; he'd only ever _talked_ to Inoichi, before.

The other ANBU –his mask could have been any sort of mammal; dog, fox, raccoon..?– outlined the Hokage's conditions. He would be allowed in the Tower so long as he didn't cause any trouble. He _could_ be allowed into the Forest –_(Oh, how fun, but why would they let him free in _there_?)_– but not for another two days. The man actually _told_ Harry why, too; the second stage of the Chuunin exam was being held in there, and reaching the Tower was part of the task's objective. They didn't want him caught in the fighting.

Harry began to wonder just _how_ dangerous a place the Forest of Death was supposed to be. Maybe _that_ was why they'd thought it so strange that he called the place 'safe'?

Because all the people in the Tower would be ninja, there were no restrictions on who he could speak to. He could also forego wearing his hood, "if he wished to."

Harry kept the disdainful sneer off his face, but only just. He could almost _taste_ the manipulation wafting his way. Harry _clearly_ remembered Inoichi telling him that Orochimaru had infiltrated the Chuunin Exam. Did they think he was _stupid_? Really? The only thing he could see was them trying to use him as _bait_; the presence of the 'son' used to lure out the 'father'.

Whatever. It wouldn't do him much good, trying to figure out their intentions with his still-limited information. It wouldn't be a problem until they _made_ it his problem... and then there would be hell to pay.

Harry acknowledged the rules with a nod of his head, and moved to grab his robe off the back of the chair. He'd never gotten around to giving it a thorough wash; it smelled faintly of old blood, and strongly of his own scent –so similar to the dry musk of snakes, and bitter venom. The charcoal folds settled around him comfortably, despite the excess inches of material hanging off that made him look like a child wearing their parent's clothes. He flicked the large hood over his head in an easy, practiced motion and turned to the less-familiar ANBU, waiting.

They would be getting to the Tower by Shunshin through a few quick jumps: From the hospital to the training ground, from there to midway through the Forest, and then to the Tower. Harry got the impression the technique _(jutsu)_ was harder to do with a 'passenger' – almost an exact parallel to side-along Apparation.

Just before Harry took hold of the proffered arm of the other, he looked at Sparrow, feeling an unsettling sense of finality. It shivered in the air around him, twining around Birdy's chakra like a faint corona. Eyes narrowed with confusion, Harry paused, staring at his favorite for another moment before giving into the _urge_ to speak. "Stay safe, Birdy." His voice didn't come out as firm as he wanted it to, laced with mild confusion still; it didn't make the feeling of finality abate, either, but it was all he could do without arousing more suspicion. He couldn't _begin_ to explain the feeling.

He'd grown strangely fond of the ANBU and didn't want anything to happen to him. Harry didn't know why he felt so _sure_ that something would.

With a sigh, Harry wrapped long, sleeve covered fingers around the mammal-masked shinobi's arm and the world slid passed him. Each jump was quick and disorienting, but not as jarring as the instant relocation that was the trademark of all magical means of teleportation: In less than five seconds they were standing in a small, empty room, and Harry recognized the scent of the Forest.

The shinobi stepped away and stood by the only door in the room, waiting. Harry tilted his head in unfocused curiosity; was he not to stay in this room? _(He wanted time to sit and think, about Birdy and the strange detachment he was feeling from all the bad things in his head...)_

"Come along. We need to check in at the Surveillance room before anything else." Harry blinked and tilted his head the other way, face blank. "It's the room, ah, _Birdy_ and I found you in."

Ah, okay. The room with the deliciously comfortable couch. _(Had they managed to get his blood out of it?)_ He found it a bit ironic that he'd managed to settle in the _surveillance _room before, but it was the amusing kind of irony so he didn't so much mind. Harry nodded distractedly and they left the bare room, heading for the stairs.

"What are you called?" Harry asked as they got closer to a small concentration of presences, only one of which was noteworthy for its... _oddness_.

He had the feeling that he was receiving a sidelong look. "Jackal." the ANBU answered simply. Harry tilted his head up in acknowledgement; that was right, he could vaguely remember that this man was with Birdy and the ANBU-Healer when they'd found him with... Umino? Harry hummed without comment as they stopped before the familiar room's door, not so curious anymore. "Are you ready?"

Harry turned his head very slowly to give a pointedly deliberate _look_; it set the man beside him chuckling nervously. How _young_ was this man? With his features covered it was impossible to tell, but the way he reacted... Jackal sobered quickly, and murmured a very quiet _"Okay, then..." _as he tapped his fingers on the door _(code, that was _code_)_ and slid it open.

The only thing that had changed was a couple of televisions set up in front of the couch, besides the addition of people to the room. Harry immediately felt eyes on him as he followed Jackal inside, but all his attention was focused on a woman with wild purple hair: She was reclined on the couch in a way that hinted more towards exhaustion than simple relaxation... and her _chakra_... Harry was most interested in _her_ because he could more clearly sense something _off_ about the state of her chakra, something unnatural; it seemed to churn, like it was being upset by something. There was something... _dark_...

Jackal presented a sealed scroll to one of the two standing shinobi, saying; "Hokage-sama's orders to allow Harry to be in the Tower, with supervision, and the Training Ground once the Exam is concluded." Harry's eyes flickered away from the woman long enough to catch the incredulous looks traded between the new shinobi, before one of them opened the scroll and perused its contents.

"My, my," Harry mused to himself, senses fixed on the faintly stirring woman as he spoke. "It still smells so strongly of my blood in here." Although he had spoken quietly, it was obvious that the others in the room had heard him, based on the way the reader had paused and the unoccupied one was staring. The woman had tensed; deep, angry lines forming around her eyes.

The one with the scroll finished reading, rolling it back up deliberately, tense. "All is in order, ANBU-san. Will you be the one watching him?" Jackal inclined his head in silent agreement. It was apparent that the man wanted to ask something –he kept shooting semi-discreet looks at Harry– but he remained silent.

Harry angled his eyes away from the prone woman and casually glanced over the surface thoughts of the other two ninja. He found that they –the one who'd read the scroll, especially– weren't pleased _at all_ that some weird kid would be wandering around the Tower when it was bad enough that they had to watch out for the _foreign_ shinobi in the halls. They weren't happy about his concealed face, either: He wasn't ANBU, his identity shouldn't be a secret from them.

Jackal sighed, but Harry thought his new guard was secretly amused. It was for that reason –and that reason _only_– that Harry allowed the man to reach out and tug his hood down, only making a token complaint with a small noise of discontent and a half-step away from the ANBU.

The only thing that kept the stunned silence from being absolute was the white noise of faint voices from the surveillance equipment.

Harry slowly turned his head to face the scroll-reader, eyes attracted by the sudden movement of the man swallowing reflexively, nervously. He kept his face blank for another long moment before he smirked sharply, mimicking the picture he saw fixed in the shinobi's head: This ninja was old enough to remember Orochimaru before he'd turned traitor, had seen the Snake Sannin enough to know that this boy _was mirroring that damned creepy smirk perfectly..!_

"Anko-sama!" the other ninja exclaimed, jerking his head to the now fully aware woman. Harry tracked his gaze back to the purple-haired kunoichi and saw a twitch develop in the fingers of her right hand; a sign he'd learned meant the ninja in question _really_ wanted to throw a weapon...

Harry's tongue flicked out to taste the air –the older ninja twitched back, and Harry nearly giggled– and he was instantly, deeply interested in the scent of snake clinging to 'Anko'–

Harry flinched and hissed in angry surprise at the _fastfastfast_ flicker of movement, the clang of metal and Jackal suddenly before him, blocking him from view of the abruptly violent woman. Heavy sounds, metal hitting wood, were loud in the sudden stillness within the room.

"Mitarashi-san!" Jackal _growled_, crouched defensively before Harry and wielding one of the kunai weapons in hand _(he had just hit her weapons out of the air!)_. "Stand down!" Harry looked over the shoulder of his protector and hissed again at the woman, easily ignoring the involuntary twitch from Jackal, staring directly at murky, sand colored eyes and _daring_ her to come after him again. There was recognition in her gaze, and fear, and _hate_, but they slowly cleared the longer she stared at him, at the blindfold hiding his eyes and the unhealthy gauntness of his face.

There was silence again; Jackal still poised for defense and the other two shinobi apparently wary of _breathing_ too loudly, while Anko and Harry held an even stare down. Eventually the woman stood properly from her crouch, weapons disappearing from her hand has if they had never been, and she sat –_that_ obviously cost her something, from the wary tenseness that shook her arms occasionally. Harry reached out and poked the back of Jackal's arm, and almost laughed at the way he nearly jumped, but it got the ANBU to stop blocking his way.

"Is the Snake-Lady going to attack me again?" Harry asked her, hiss more prominent in his voice that it had been since he first started learning their language; the change made Jackal turn his head slightly back, _watching_. His focus was honed on the woman, however, so he paid his guard no mind.

Recognition passed though her eyes again, muted with the pain she tried to hide; the angry _betrayal_ was new, and Harry dared not delve deeper into its cause for fear of calling forth his own hurt. "Depends on if you give me a reason to." There wasn't a hint of _lie_ in the statement, and while she wasn't looking to kill him anymore –_the ANBU was too much trouble; apparently he was _supposed_ to be here…–_ she wouldn't hesitate to attack again. Harry continued to frown at her, his instinctual pull towards the scent of snakes slowly being overridden by the hostility lurking in the woman's mind.

"We can leave whenever you want, Harry." Jackal told him, still using his body to mostly block him from Anko's direct sight. Harry didn't acknowledge his guard, though, baring his teeth in a _most_ unfriendly way in a new parody of a smile.

"I didn't do anything to you, and you attacked me." He... wasn't offended anymore, or angry or scared, but he started to feel... _amused_. "Will Snake-Lady tell me _why_?" Oh, so very _amused_, and it colored his voice in a most unpleasant way, one that made the scent of apprehension spike in the air.

She was watching him differently now, as if he was missing something obvious; she paid no heed to the unsettling expression he knew himself to be wearing, which wholly surprised him, enough that he dropped the farce of emotion completely. "You... don't know..." Anko spoke as if she couldn't believe the truth of her own words; her expression shifted again, and Harry hadn't realized she'd been so _drawn_ until it disappeared. She shook her head, still watching him strangely. "Why are you calling me that?"

Harry frowned at her again and shook his head in turn. She broke the rules –she didn't answer his question. Not quite willing to turn his back on a potentially hostile entity –no matter how amused he'd felt before– Harry felt along the wall behind him and slipped from the room without ever removing his eyes from the snake-woman. He would've liked to have an answer, but not if it meant speaking the terms of a bargain first. _(It really was a shame; he would have liked to ask about the strange –weak– condition of her chakra, and the darkness churning it...)_

Jackal followed immediately, closing the door behind them. For a long moment neither of them moved, standing silently in the hall; Harry contemplative and Jackal expectant. The ANBU spoke first.

"How _did_ you know Mitarashi-san used snakes?" The warping effect the mask had on his voice didn't hide all of the wariness in Jackal's tone. Harry tilted his head; No, it couldn't be... they hadn't figured out how keen his senses were yet?

"I don't know what you mean," Harry replied quietly, looking down the deserted hall. "_Use_ snakes? What does that mean? To fight?" He glanced at the ANBU and shrugged, starting to walk. "I called her 'Snake-Lady' because she had the smell of snakes on her... and I don't think she would have taken it well, had I used her name."

Jackal said nothing in response, didn't talk anymore as Harry led them away from the surveillance room, following a step behind and to the side. Most of the presences were still a few floors down, and of no immediate interest to Harry. This far away he couldn't get an accurate feel for them, but most seemed weak; the prospective Chuunin? Hm. So few... didn't the Forest part of the test end tomorrow..?

They didn't pass anyone on the trek, but Harry made a point of looking at any cameras he saw, knowing without a doubt that at least the snake-woman was watching. Not really expecting an answer, Harry spoke aloud the suspicion he'd fostered but hadn't personally sought. "She knew Orochimaru very well, didn't she?"

Jackal didn't answer him, but the fact that Harry _heard_ his next step –the ANBU had an amazing skill at moving without sound– was enough for him. Harry sighed and kept on, though he wondered if the woman would ever seek him out in the future... if he would have to watch his back for an attempt on his life.

Harry exchanged his melancholy for mild surprise when he came upon a room he didn't recognize; it was _odd_, because they were near the entrance of the Tower and he'd thought that he'd seen all of the larger rooms... An odd room, ceiling high enough that it had to encompass part of the floor above it, and observations decks flanking opposite sides with stairs leading to each. The floor was conspicuously clear and open, with the exception of the space along the back wall: _That_ held immense sculptures of two human arms, hands pressed together in some arrangement that must have had some important meaning...

It drifted through his head that _that_ was one of the ninja hand-signs, the 'ram' sign, though Harry couldn't recall where he picked up the stray bit of knowledge. Maybe he had been reading people's minds a bit _too_ casually... Harry was struck with the foreboding feeling –the kind that usually came right before he landed himself in _deep shit_– that one of these days he would slip up and say something he wasn't supposed to know, and there would be _trouble_.

But...

Harry could hardly keep the grin off his face; a bit of trouble sounded _fun_ right about now. _(A perfect distraction.)_ He hissed out a quiet chuckle as he wondered if the maybe-trouble would give him a proper opportunity to reveal his powers... What better excuse to fight than an attempt on his life? He doubted that Jackal would be fully able to protect him... _(Or subdue him.)_

Harry glanced at Jackal over his shoulder, simply staring at the snarling, vaguely vulpine mask the man wore. He resisted the temptation to read his mind, for once lacking any desire to know what would be said before it _was_, and instead lingered for a moment to see if there would be any protests against him entering the room. None arose, so he went up the stairs to his right –ANBU silently following– and settled at the very end of the deck, back securely pressed into the corner. As he went to fold his legs up under him Harry discovered, somewhat mystified, that he had once again forgotten to wear the strange sandals they'd left out for him. How did he keep forgetting to wear shoes..?

Sparing one last glance at his ...babysitter, Harry clasped his hands together within his sleeves and, with a sigh, closed his eyes. It took a few minutes to properly relax and acclimate himself to Jackal's not-as-familiar presence, but once he did Harry was able to release some of his magic and get a better sense of the Tower's current occupants. There were presences all over the place, but most of them were actually quite near –on the same floor, even– for all that the magic wasn't thickly concentrated enough to give him an exact _number_ of ninja. He was reluctant to release any more magic, however, because he still wasn't _positive_ that the shinobi couldn't detect it like he could feel their chakra.

Harry jolted. Speaking of chakra! Good gods, what was that..? Harry stilled and focused his magic more thickly around the ..._abnormality_, and found himself becoming very _interested_. Someone possessed a huge amount of chakra, more than he'd ever felt before, but there was something lurking within it; a different _sort_ of chakra, even _more_ massive than the chakra it was hidden under. It felt... violent. Restless. It was churning and pushing up against the ..._human_ chakra, causing distortions as they mixed. Not even the Hokage had felt this bright...

Without conscious thought, Harry pressed his magic closer to the source of two chakras. The only way to describe the feel of the trapped one was... inhuman. Nothing like he had felt from anything else. How an energy so unlike his magic could feel angry or malevolent perplexed him...

For a brief second the trapped chakra surged and overtook the human chakra it was trapped under, shooting out and _reaching_ for the tendrils of magic that wound closest to it. The feeling when it touched his magic was terrible, like hot sand was suddenly crawling under his skin, and Harry knew at that moment that there was at least _one_ chakra aware of his magic.

Harry, startled, withdrew his magic from the grasping claws of golden chakra so quickly that his body felt the strain of it. He went numb, his thoughts going dull and his head spinning; Harry retched ineffectually as he tried to clear his mind, and in turn caused himself to return enough to notice how the room seemed to spin around him. He gagged again and sagged, letting loose some of the magic that had been drawn defensively inward, vowing to _never_ do that again.

Harry opened his eyes to find Jackal crouched before him, mask at eye level. "Do you need to go back to the hospital?" Harry shook his head vehemently, speech still beyond him. "Okay then... Tell me what just happened, then." It was only slightly more amusing than degrading that the ANBU was speaking in a tone that most would only use with a small child.

Harry swallowed once more to rid himself of the last of his nausea, and shrugged in response. The strange chakra wasn't seeking him out, once again trapped beneath its human-chakra prison, so he could set aside the scare of it grabbing his magic to analyze later. "Got really dizzy." He reached up and pressed his knuckles to his temple, grimacing. Never again.

"Are you hungry?" _What?_ Harry looked at Jackal sharply, but the ANBU remained crouched before him, head tilted slightly to one side. Was he actually offering Harry _food_? Harry tilted his head so he mirrored the man.

"Maybe. Is that an offer?" Oh, if it was, please, let it be something besides that bitter broth again...

Jackal moved out of Harry's personal space with a nod; in one nonchalant move he pulled a small box out of the bag slung across his back, and then removed something from within the box. He unwrapped one of whatever was inside and held it out for Harry to take; Harry stared at it blankly for a moment before he reached out and removed it from the ANBU's gloved hand. A ball of rice –Harry scented it– with a piece of fish inside.

"Thank you?" He offered tentatively, turning the food over in his hand before he could bring himself to take a bite. The rice was plain, only slightly flavored with salt. It struck him suddenly that this was the first time he had eaten prepared food since his last Hogsmeade weekend... Harry chewed thoughtfully, disregarding the unfamiliarity of the action. "Better than the broth that Healer gives me."

Harry finished his rice ball quietly, content with the almost-forgotten feeling of food in his stomach. Jackal stood and was silent for a few minutes, before abruptly shifting and speaking again. "How do you feel?"

Harry snapped out of his contemplation of the strange chakra –_if it was trapped and mostly separate from the human chakra, but _aware_ of his magic, did that mean it had a consciousness? Was the human made aware of the magic that only the other chakra could feel?_– and tilted his head in silent confusion.

"Does your stomach hurt?" Jackal elaborated in face of the silent question, distorted voice lilting curiously.

"Why? Was the food poisoned?" Harry's voice came out vaguely caustic, but he barely noticed, mind already busy searching for ways to purge a potentially harmful substance from his body. He may have been immune to snake venoms, but there were many other kinds of poison about, and surely the shinobi would have concocted something _nasty_...

"No, it wasn't poisoned." Jackal assured him, softening his voice from the usual monotone Harry'd noticed the ANBU made a habit of using. "But I can't give you any more solid food until I know your body can handle it."

Harry was still and silent for a long moment when he registered what had been said. "Oh." He had actually expected it to be poisoned... Harry sighed and shook himself. _(Had it really come to this?)_ "No, I'm fine. I had eaten solid food a few times after I was exiled." Another moment and he became amused with his paranoia. "I admit, though, the broth was probably better for me. Nutritionally, anyway." Though he disliked the broth on principal, as it was one of the things that continually reminded him of his imprisonment; in taste and texture it was eerily similar to the nutrient potions that'd substituted for his food for eight months.

"Why didn't you tell anyone that?" Harry accepted a new rice ball with the –almost _amused_– question. He shrugged in response and chose to remain silent in that matter: Truthfully, it had never occurred to him to mention it, or ask for food, either. He knew he wouldn't _starve_, so food wasn't really... important. He wouldn't tell them that, though; it could be interpreted in _far_ too many unpleasant ways.

Harry finished eating, licking the last pieces of loose rice from his fingers, and drew his hand back into his sleeve. He noticed Jackal hadn't shifted his attention back to his face, masked gaze still drawn to his now-hidden hand. Frowning with mild uncertainty, Harry pulled his sleeve back and inspected his hand; no, nothing strange had appeared there. He didn't see what caused Jackal to stare –_(he didn't like it, stop _staring_)_– so he scowled up at the ANBU. "What?" he snapped, voice low.

"Is that _writing_ on your hand?" The man didn't sound amused, but almost incredulous under the mask-distorted neutrality. Harry flexed his hand, moving the old, shiny words etched into his skin.

"Mm-hmm." Harry agreed, running his fingers over the memorable scar; it was cool to the touch. "There was an evil teacher one year. She would make you write lines with a _special_ quill, and whatever you wrote would be carved into your skin." He scraped a claw over the jagged angles of the old words; would his handwriting still look like that? _(Tom Riddle's script had been much neater... Still jagged, though...)_

The ANBU tilted his head to the side once more; Harry saw a tendon flex in his neck, and guessed Jackal must have clenched his jaws. "A teacher was allowed to do that? To children?" Ah, it appeared he'd noticed the scars were pale with age, a couple years old. By their 'estimates' of his age, he couldn't have been much older than 'ten' when he'd acquired this scar.

"No. She wasn't." Harry smiled grimly. If Dumbledore hadn't been so busy with dealing with the Ministry's interference; if the teachers hadn't been so worried about losing their jobs to address their student's concerns... What Umbridge did had been illegal. Besides using a Dark item to torture her students, there had been many _Ministry approved_ laws on the books against drawing blood from Wizards outside of emergency situations. _(Stopitstopitstopit...)_

"Want to know what it says?" Harry asked the man after a moment of silence, morbidly amused. Jackal only shrugged, but Harry knew it was a "yes". Who wouldn't be curious? Though, he wondered why Inoichi had never asked... no, never mind. Inoichi, first and foremost, had to focus on Harry as a potential threat to Konoha; the interrogator had to determine if Harry was lying about the chance of enemies from his own 'country' coming to attack. He had never focused so much on the scars as what they had done to affect Harry's state of mind.

Harry read it aloud in English –the first time he'd deliberately spoken his native language since learning theirs'– and then translated it so that Jackal could understand. "I must not tell lies." He observed interestedly the way the ANBU's fingers tensed.

"Your _teacher_ had you carve that into your skin for _lying_?" Harry blinked at the man –was he _angry_? On _Harry's_ behalf?– and then quirked a smile, hissing out an amused little laugh. It didn't appear to reassure the ANBU; Harry noticed that although Jackal seemed significantly more laid-back than the other shinobi he'd had to interact with, he twitched just as much at the random hisses Harry was prone to making.

"Oh, no," Harry laughed, the sound raspy. "I didn't lie. I told her that the Dark Lord had returned to restart his war. She was a puppet for the government, and according to _them_ the Dark Lord was dead. And I was a liar." He couldn't bring himself to feel as bitter as he used to about it, not after he'd killed the woman. It made the amusement lacing his voice come out sardonic and slightly caustic, slightly _evil_.

There was a clear pause before Jackal spoke again, and by then Harry decided that the man had _forced_ himself continue; his voice lilted in obvious _(forced)_ curiosity. "And the Dark Lord was not dead?"

Harry had the wild urge to cackle at the question, and though he managed to restrain the temptation, his lips still curved into a sharp smirk. The ANBU twitched.

"I suppose he had been mostly dead at one time, but what kind of Dark Lord would _Voldemort_ have been if he couldn't cheat death at least once?"

Silently contemplating the state of his soul –how he was both and neither 'Harry Potter' and 'Tom Riddle'– Harry thought he'd been a damn good Lord.

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**A/N:** And lookit that, we're out of the hospital! I know many of you are pleased, believe me, I am too, no matter how necessary it was for Harry to _be there_. Uhm. Yeah. So, the next chapter is probably my favorite for this Arc, so hopefully it won't take me so long to type. *cackle*

Leave me reviews; they make me happy, and I'd very much like to know how you felt about the things revealed in this chapter. Can you guess what Harry was 'feeling' in the Tower, in the people? There is more to come...


	14. Chapter 12: Delirium

**A/N:** Wow guys, you make me feel special. Last chapter was the first to make it passed 100 reviews; want to try for that again? XP So, this is my favorite chapter of this Arc, hope you like it too :3

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Chapter 12; Delirium

The deep silence of night hung over the Tower, most of the presences stilled with sleep and all but the occasional emergency light shut off. The cavernous room Harry had yet to move from was especially dark, lit with only a single light over the main door. Occasionally a shadow moved in the hallway, a presence come to look in on he and Jackal.

Only once was it snake-lady Anko, staring wordlessly into the room for a long minute before leaving; the scent of wary hostility lingered for a while afterwards.

Seeing in the dark was no challenge to Harry, however; sometimes, it was even easier than seeing the world in light. When the eyes of his other form carried over to his human form, his sight had become preternaturally acute. It wasn't often something he took time to consider, but Harry supposed he had to be lucky to have the form of one of the few snakes with decent vision… But it was, again, something only to be expected. A basilisk's eyes were their most deadly weapon…

_(Should there ever come a time when he had to _use_ them… It would herald his time to move on.)_

Harry shook off his almost-meditative doze and glanced around. Jackal was leaning against the wall a few feet away, apparently at ease – Harry knew better than to be fooled. He'd _seen_ enough from Inoichi's occasional thoughts on the subject of his guards, the ANBU; all skilled shinobi, all hand-picked for _one_ purpose. And all answerable only to the Hokage. If Harry wanted to do anything against them –attack them– it would have to be a complete surprise, something they could not anticipate. It would mean revealing more of his magic, probably more than he wanted them to ever know.

_(It would happen someday, an inevitability, but that day would have _meaning_.)_

But at the moment he had no reason to attack his guard, and felt no inclination to do so. Even though he was pretty sure it had been _Jackal_ that had put him to sleep when he and Birdy took Harry from the Tower the first time, he was quickly growing fond of this ANBU as well. _(Birdy was still favorite, though.)_ Harry knew himself well enough to figure that it was because the ANBU kept his distance and had so far _empathized _with him, rather than pitying him. It was but a small courtesy to anyone else, but to Harry it was a rarity to make note of…

Hmm, no, that wasn't exactly right, either. He would've been bitter if Jackal did nothing but empathize –that came too close to the _falseness_ that steeped his childhood– but Jackal toed the line between empathy and apathy almost _too_ proficiently. He didn't understand his new ANBU: How could the man go so quickly from _(muted)_ indignation to relaxed apathy? Why did he lack Birdy's and Healer's professionalism?

But once more, Harry couldn't complain. It was very…_freeing_, actually, however it was his guard managed to become so drastically standoffish. Harry had been acting –_lying_– for so much of his life; only when he didn't_ have_ to watch others to make sure he was acting appropriately –following their unconscious behavioral cues– was he free to be himself. And among the shinobi of Konoha, none of them looked at him any stranger than usual for his mercurial changes in behavior as he tried to _be himself_.

They had only ever known him as they'd found him. They didn't seem to expect anything more or less of him than eccentric quirks and behavior. Harry wasn't supposed to be a hero for them; there were no expectations he had to live up to, no reason to hide that he was _damaged_. It was… a nice thought. He just had to break himself of a behavior-turned-habit that had been built over the course of a lifetime. It would require work.

Harry stood and took a moment to stretch, relishing the ability to do so after his hours of deliberate stillness. He felt very strong from his four days of sleep, almost _energetic_; not at all like the nervous energy that built up from being confined in his hospital room. Jackal looked over at him when he moved away from the corner, standing a little straighter when Harry wrapped his covered hands over the railing. Harry leaned over slowly to gauge the –respectable– distance to the floor.

"What's up?" the ANBU asked, the slightest trace of boredom in his tone. He started ticking questions off on his fingers. "Tired? Feeling sick again? Want to go back to the hospital? Contemplating suicide?"

Harry snorted in surprise at the –unexpectedly morbid– last question, but never lifted his eyes from his examination of the railing; it was about the same width as the average broomstick. He answered the questions distractedly, amused. "Ch. No, _emphatically_ no, and no again. Of all the times to kill myself, why would I do so _now_?"

In the silence that followed his response, Harry clambered onto the railing, sliding from a low crouch to stand at full height as soon as he was sure of his stability. His balance had always been pretty good, and it'd only got better once he had started playing Quidditch: Standing on an immobile railing was _nothing_ compared to balancing on a fast-moving broomstick while racing after the agile golden snitch.

_(He was balancing on the knife's edge; the barrier was so thin he couldn't _feel_ it, but it was lacking one last _push_.)_

He held his arms a few inches from his body and started walking; it was _easy_, and though it hurt his feet some, it was a minor pain and easily ignored. The familiar thrill of being high off the ground was one that he had missed terribly. Flying had always been his release, his freedom from unwanted thoughts and bad moods. It was a shame that he'd had to give it up to have more time to train himself… He would have liked to fly again, especially now, when he knew his chances of ever experiencing the thrill were negligible.

Sometimes he was surprised that his animagus form wasn't some kind of bird, instead of a giant, ground-dwelling –happily subterranean– serpent. Truthfully, Harry had never given his form much thought besides as an ultimate trump card; granted, one that he had quickly been barred from using, but a weapon all the same. It was just another strange thing to happen around him: It was supposed to be impossible for a wizard to transform into a magical creature… _Wait_.

Harry paused momentarily in thought before continuing carefully along the handrail. Somewhere in the mire of knowledge mixing in his head he remembered reading something, some legend, one of the cautionary tales of _Old_. Tales of people who for some reason had the ability to surpass the mundane.

A woman who –as the legend went– befriended a phoenix, one who routinely cried healing tears for her to counteract a childhood wasting illness. And many years later when she was struck with a mortal wound, instead of dying, had burst into flames and emerged as a phoenix. The woman returned to her human form as a young girl, with the black eyes of her phoenix form. She was captured and forced to cry so that her valuable tears would be used to heal the same people who she had fought against: They were tears of _poison_, though, and any used would ignite a living flame that took the form or nightmares, and consumed the person to naught but ash.

The creation of the dark spell Fiendfyre was supposedly based on that nightmarish, living flame.

Another legend told of a young boy –called a prodigy in all things magic by the people of his village– who witnessed the slaughter of his family and friends by invading forces. Powerless, his wand snapped, he fled into the forest and quickly came upon a herd of thestrals –death omens attracted by the scent of blood. Near insane with grief and want for vengeance, the boy proclaimed upon his magic that he would become a death omen to those that destroyed his village. Set upon by the herd of thestrals –roused by his hysterical Oath– he transformed into one of them, young still. He was raised by the herd of gaunt, reptilian horses and eventually grew to become their leader.

That boy only transformed back when he led his herd to slaughter the families of all that destroyed his home. White-eyed, gaunt and winged, the man in the legend was sometimes called the Grim Reaper.

It made Harry wonder just how much truth those 'myths' held, and –if they were true– just how close the Veil had come to actually killing him. Although he had known about his form –had actually transformed before, unlike the spontaneous transformations in the stories– the basilisk traits hadn't appeared until he went through what everyone believed to be a _portal of death_. The subtext of the stories didn't elude him. Harry recognized that the creature transformations only took place after a mortal blow: The woman had a hole blown through her chest and the boy had been _mauled_ by _thestrals_.

He almost wished he was back in his own world, if only so that he could look more thoroughly into those legends. As it was, he wasn't even sure if he was remembering something from his own mind… or Voldemort's. It would have also been nice to do some research into _why_ he was remembering things so well when he never _intended_ to integrate Voldemort's soul into his own…

_(Oh, but Voldemort had, and he _did_…)_

Hm. Maybe it would be worth trying that spell… To be able to look upon his own magic and soul could shed a lot of light on the whole matter.

Harry became aware of just how long he'd been standing motionless on the rail –staring at the floor so far below– only when Jackal moved quietly towards him. Not silently though; Harry was sure the ANBU was _making_ himself create just enough noise so as not to startle him into jumping.

"You should come down from there," Jackal advised, close enough to catch him should he have startled anyway. Harry continued to stare blindly at the distant ground, and vaguely contemplated jumping for a brief rush of flight; he could apparate before he hit the floor, he was _sure_ of it.

"Do you not trust my balance?" he murmured at last, unnaturally motionless, still entertaining the thought of jumping.

A pause, then; "Your balance is exceptional for someone in your condition, I'm sure. No, you have been standing there for over an hour; if you want to sleep, there are better places to do so. Places where you couldn't accidentally kill yourself." The statement was delivered in an even monotone. A good enough reason. Harry shrugged and hopped backwards, landing beside the man with a quiet thump and a rustle of cloth. He barely felt the strain the action caused, more focused on a new, interesting thought.

"Would you get in very much trouble if something were to happen to me on your watch?" Harry asked curiously, stepping back to lean against the wall. It was a new experience for him; the person watching him actually _talking_ to him. _(Not even Birdy did that…)_ Back when the Order members watched him –_supposedly _guarding him against Death Eaters– they went out of their way _not_ to talk to him. It was funny, in a not-fun ironic way, that the shinobi _babysitters_ were more… _polite_ that the Order members, when the ninja were watching _him_ for threats against _them_.

It was a bit backwards, he thought.

"That depends on the circumstances. Why do you ask?" Again, the ANBU appeared at ease, leaning lightly against the handrail, hidden gaze directed somewhere over Harry's shoulder. Harry wondered, offhandedly, if the ANBU also had orders to report whatever he said to Inoichi; it sounded more likely than not.

"Because something always happens," Harry said, honestly. "I just don't think you should get into trouble because of something you had no control over." The blunt sincerity of the statement made Jackal's attention sharpen perceptibly, before relaxing again for some reason. Harry was too curious to resist _looking_ for the reason to the shinobi's strange behavior, forcing more _focus_ into his usually light touches to get more that the vague, murmuring thoughts all the mask-wearers gave him. It must've had something to do with not seeing their eyes…

What Harry found annoyed him, even if it continued to give him the advantage of being grossly underestimated. Jackal had begun to forget himself, talking to Harry: He had been briefed by Yamanaka Inoichi, had been _warned_ of that trap. Harry could sometimes act passably like a normal boy, but ultimately there was something very wrong with him. In the Interrogator's exact words; _"Harry has an amazing ability to recall his past –his trauma– but there is something fundamentally _wrong_ with his mind. It looked… like there always had been. For all intents and purposes, he lives a life of functional insanity; you can trust nothing he tells you without hard _proof_."_

_Functional insanity_… but Harry already knew that; he knew he hadn't been quite right even before Voldemort got hold of him. But not to trust what he said? He almost always spoke the truth _(some form of it, anyway)_… It was almost like they were calling him a _liar_… Like all of Hogwarts called him in his fifth year.

No, no, stop; he had to ignore that thought. These shinobi were different that the wizards back home… Now, what else did Jackal think? Harry stared more intensely, and _saw_: The ANBU was supposed to listen to what Harry had to say, listen and remember his _exact words_, even if he wasn't supposed to take anything said at face value. He had to play along, but ignore the implications. Even if the last thing Harry said to him sounded ominously like the boy was warning him of an attack…

Harry slid down the wall until he was seated, legs drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them. "Even if you don't believe me, I still don't think you should be blamed when it happens…"

Jackal might have sighed, but he still crouched down across from Harry and _asked_. "What do you think will happen, Harry?"

Harry blinked and waved a hand negligently, feeling oddly off-kilter. "You would know already if you looked. Inoichi told me of my unfortunate resemblance to your Orochimaru, and how he has infiltrated your Exam." He dropped his head to one side. "Someone is likely to come after me for that resemblance, whether it be to capture or kill, and I will inevitably flee…" Harry trailed off, voice distant and thoughtful. Huh. He hadn't even realized just how likely that was until he spoke it aloud.

_(It was one thing he'd had to work hard to train himself out of, and he'd regressed back to old habits… Flight had always been his first reflex, not _fight_.)_

Jackal, noticing Harry's waning interest in their 'conversation' –which was actually quite close to the casual interrogations Inoichi held– had many questions running though his head, trying to choose the most vital thing for Harry to answer. _"Who do you _think_ will come after you?; Do you not believe I could stop anyone who would come after you? I _did_ stop Mitarashi Anko.; You would flee at the first opportunity, the first sign of danger? Doing so would break your agreement with the Hokage…; (What kind of life have you lived, that you're so _resigned_?)"_

"Where would you flee to?" The ninja kept his voice soft, but hidden eyes bore unerringly into Harry's own. A sharp pain spread viciously behind his eyes, like hot lead seeping into his brain.

Harry groaned and looked away, breaking eye contact and shaking his head. He pushed himself away from the man, further down the wall, back towards the _(safe)_ corner. "So many questions," he muttered, pressing his palms over cloth-covered eyes. "So many questions. Where will I go — Where do I want to go?" Harry moved further from the man yet. "Where do I want to go, Jackal? Wherewherewhere…"

It took more focus than it should have to disconnect himself from his watcher's mind. _(Why could he still _see_ the thoughts when he'd already looked away..!)_ He caught the man's understanding –_Harry wanted to go to the Forest of Death, he would run _there_, where he felt _safe– before he could completely sever the strand of magic. A piece of knowledge that he identified as Voldemort's –because he knew, his 'newfound skill' in Legilimency was really a carryover of an oft-used talent of the Dark Lord's, imprinted into the magic he possessed– let him understand that it put a terrible strain on his mind to read the thoughts of another without actually _seeing_ their eyes. He had to _avoid_ reading the minds of his ANBU guards, because right now his body _could not cope with the strain_.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Harry could sense the man had stood, was moving through the fringes of his personal space.

"Shut up, shutupshutup…" He buried his face in his knees and, before he could consciously realize it, had already retreated deep into his mind—

Dark. It was dark, but a warm dark –peaceful. Harry liked it here. It was… familiar. The air was heavy and rich, smelling of soil and decaying leaves, and _snakes_…

Yellow eyes shot open and Harry stared around wildly, seeing only the thick, miasmic swirls of magic that he _knew_ protected the core of his mind. He was again without his blindfold, and wearing the wispy black robe he'd donned when Inoichi invaded his mindscape that first time.

"How the hell did I get here…" he murmured, confused that he didn't sense the intrusion of another mind. Neither he, or Voldemort, ever had the ability to enter the visible mindscape, even if Voldemort _did_ know how to shield his from invasion. To get here without even meaning to –not even knowing _how_ he had– and also without some other mind-reader messing with him was frankly _perplexing as hell_.

He glanced around guardedly, somewhat daunted by the serene stillness. There, in the near distance and blocked by waves of thick yellow mist, was the silhouette of an immense serpent –so large, a much bigger form with the same shape– that looked at him placidly with his own eyes. _Still safe; still protected._

"Lord Harry," a voice whispered. Harry collapsed to his knees in shock as a fiery red-orange serpent seemed to _ooze_ out of the abyssal blackness that made up the ground, exuding a glowing aura of warm colors. Lustrous orange eyes –pupils no longer round, but instead slit like his own– shone with a new, hidden power as the serpent moved closer, rearing up to bring its face closer to his. "Why haven't you called me out yet? You needed me…" The serpent's voice carried an indecipherable note… something close to grief.

It took more than a few seconds for Harry to find his voice, weak when it emerged. "Pretty one," he breathed, eyes wide, _disbelieving_. "My Fire Scales. How are you here? I thought I remembered you here before, but the meddler made me hurt so much I couldn't trust it was true…" Trembling, near-skeletal fingers delicately trailed over warm, smooth scales. The serpent hissed in pleasure, arching into his touch like a cat, and Harry finally gave in to the urge to lift his companion to his chest.

Harry shivered as the serpent's angular head rubbed against his throat in an affectionate –nearly intimate– gesture. "You wanted me to stay, and I didn't want to leave. Your power is keeping my spirit attached to you, Lord Harry, so you would not have to be alone." Harry felt its tongue flicker across his skin. "Your power has kept me here, waiting, until you call me out."

A grin tugged at pale lips, and Harry bent to kiss the serpent's head in a strangely familiar motion –_(Voldemort would sometimes do the same to his companion, Nagini)_– before he stood. Fire Scales moved onto his shoulders smoothly, as if they had never been apart at all. As the last of the silent grief that had weighed on him so long finally lifted, Harry sighed, deeply content.

Ophidian eyes glanced around again, less alarmed, but were unable to see anything but the thick, toxic yellow miasma. "I should take a look around, before I try to leave." Harry murmured. "Will you come with me, Pretty One?"

"Always and forever, Lord Harry," The serpent assured him fervently, without hesitation. Harry nodded and pet his companion as he started off, out of his sheltered center. He was relieved to note that it was still apparently unharmed by the escaped memories, exactly as he remembered it.

One less thing to worry about.

When the miasma thinned and everything grew cold, Harry took comfort in the fiery warmth of the serpent around his shoulders. A wound opened on his forehead, hot blood streaming into his eye, burning. He traced it with a fingertip and was somehow unsurprised at the familiar lightning bolt resting there: The physical mark was gone, but it was still a part of him, a scar that would brand him forever. His companion became distressed, but Harry kept walking, hissing nonsense to distract the both of them from the increasingly malevolent feeling saturating the very air.

Icy, thick liquid oozed out of the soft ground, squelching like fresh mud with every step. Wounds continued to open over his body as the last of the yellow mist drifted away; the smell of decay was almost overpowering, and Harry thought it might have become worse since his last visit. The contrast between the searing heat of his blood and the arctic chill of his mind left him ill and shaky, stumbling blindly over the ambiguous 'ground'.

Overwhelming, absolute darkness fell –the abyssal blackness of the ground spread– and the familiar ache in his chest flared so violently that Harry was left momentarily breathless. He gasped in the frozen, humid air and almost choked on the sickly smell of _rot_, but kept forward. The painful, shallow furrows in the ground were expected –Harry remembered them _vividly_– but expecting them didn't make stumbling over them any less agonizing.

He couldn't stop, not yet. He _needed_ to know how bad the damage had been, had become. Don't stop, don't stop, _don't stop_…

Harry fell to his side and wailed pitifully as he slipped into a knee-deep furrow, one much deeper than he could recall at this part of his mind. He lay panting, blind, the cold oozing blood soaking into his tattered robe and open wounds for a long time before he could rally the strength to stand. Fire Scales was strangely silent, triangular head pressed snugly to the pulse-point on Harry's thin neck, coils gripping tightly. The pain –both internal and external– kept him in place, shaking, for a while longer before he could attempt to move forward once more.

He could finally see. The sight hurt him still, but this time he saw something strangely beautiful about the shape the surface of his mind took. The ground, the sky, were all the deepest of black, yet in some way it wasn't _blinding_ darkness. It was definite. He got the impression that the light cast was red, but it somehow didn't affect the vivid, nearly neon colors existing against the blackness. The frozen, Avada-green lightning that cut across the sky was unchanged, as were the deep, green-glowing craters carved into the ground. The rancid smelling blood slowly filling the craters was perhaps a bit darker; less crimson, more burgundy.

Things had _changed_, though.

The impressive gouges torn into the ground, ones he knew to be impossibly deep, were now filled with violently roiling crimson smoke. It would lap at the edges of the fissures, boiling like water, and splash onto the blackness, bleeding across the ground like a live thing. A kind of red, smoky haze surrounded the fissures; Harry got the impression that it was _spreading_. _(Like an infection eating away the flesh until all that remained was the bone…)_

He vividly recalled the crimson smoke that had flowed from the shadowy mass Inoichi broke. _This_ was where the bad memories had taken root. _(So near the surface, so near his _thoughts_, but at least they hadn't contaminated his _core_.)_

Harry turned and looked back; in the very far distance –beyond an ocean of blackness– he could barely distinguish a small blotch of toxic yellow. The sight felt of bad news: Such a _small_, undamaged oasis amongst all this ravaged wasteland…

"My mind has become worse," Harry lamented, wiping blood out of lethal yellow eyes. "I do not believe I can fix this." It was unlikely a bloody _Mind Healer_ could fix this, even if he had access to one. If he would have ever let one _see_ this at all.

"Did the hunters do this to you?" The voice was airy with shocked disbelief, incandescent orange eyes taking in the ravaging scars around them. Harry trailed his hand down the slender body in a calming motion, one that felt like habit more than anything else.

"No, I am sure it was bad before I had even met you." He stated mildly, raking over the sight around him, pressing it to memory. "One _did_ make it worse, however. You have not met him yet." Harry wiped yet more blood out of his eyes, ignoring the sting of the open, agitated wounds. _(The more he bled the less he felt the cold… but was it just a remnant from his cell, or was his blood actually helping?)_

"Will you let me bite him, Lord Harry?" Pretty hissed violently, dragging a tired chuckle out of him. Still so loyal…

"Maybe. I need to bring you back to the realm of the physical, first. I don't know if you will even _have_ a corporeal body…" Harry sighed, rubbing at the persistent ache in his chest. "I need to leave here, Pretty. This pain is becoming quite bad."

His companion responded by looping itself around his throat and tightening the coils in a gentle hug. Harry smiled again, blood from innumerable wounds coloring his face crimson, and let himself go—

With a great lurch and quick gasp of air, Harry sat bolt upright, and found himself momentarily confused. He was on a small, hard bed, in a little room with no windows – the single light had been blown out and glass was scattered over the floor. A streak of white light cut brightly across the floor from the crack under the single door.

The tiny room was saturated in his magical energy; he discovered mostly privacy wards erected, specifically to divert attention _away_ from the room. Harry also found something most humorous: Jackal ANBU was stuck to the back wall, silenced and bound by thick, conjured ropes from shoulder to ankle.

Harry giggled; Jackal thrashed his head back and forth –his chakra flared, but the magic ropes absorbed it before it could move outside his body. Harry giggled again, a bit more darkly, and the ninja stilled, going limp within his bonds.

"What is funny, Lord Harry?" Pretty's voice sounded unexpectedly. Harry glanced at his lap and saw his companion curled there, though the serpent appeared to be nothing more than an afterimage. A phantom.

"The human over there," Harry hissed distractedly, a furrow forming between his brows. He was surprised at the feel of smooth scales under his fingers, when it looked like his hand should have passed through the spirit. "He struggles uselessly against his bonds. I wonder if he brought me to this room when I fell into my mind…"

"The hunter reeks of fear," the phantom stated, red, forked tongue lingering outside its mouth. Harry directed his companion onto his arm –oddly, he could feel the pressure of the sinuous body gripping his forearm, but no _weight_– and stood, vanishing the broken glass from the ground with a negligent gesture.

"So he does," Harry concurred, slipping back into a language the shinobi could understand. "Does Jackal want to tell me what he fears?" he queried lightly, removing the spell of silence that held the man's tongue.

Jackal remained stubbornly silent until Harry frowned and cast a compulsion –_'answer me'_– over him. "Y-you we-re d…de-aad…" the ANBU slurred and stuttered his words; signs of his strong attempt to fight the compulsion. It seemed… as if his guard possessed a strong will, after all. It was impressive he could fight as much as he did without magic to back it up.

"Was I?" Harry breathed as the words sunk in, checking his chaotically swirling magic for proof of the claim. A half-thought diagnostic spell insisted that for a span of _seven hours_… his heart had stopped. Only his _magic_ had circulated his blood and moved his lungs until it had started beating again. "My, my…"

It seemed his magic was no longer quite so occupied with whatev— no, he _knew_ what it had been occupied with now. His magic wasn't so resolutely focused on merging his and Voldemort's souls anymore, so it had started acting even without his conscious control… Which was a good thing, else he would have _actually_ died when his heart stopped, and Jackal would have escaped the room and _told_ instead of being detained.

_(What kind of Dark Lord would he be… if he couldn't cheat death…)_

Harry refocused on the ANBU, still bound and motionless against the wall. "You know," he smiled, deliriously gleeful at how _there_ his magic was. "It will cause me no end of trouble if you told anyone about all this." He licked his dry lips and took a step closer, feeling acutely the agitated way Jackal's chakra moved.

"You are going to kill me." His guard had lost all of his casual, lazy aloofness, warped voice back to a sure monotone.

Harry snorted. "No! No," He shook his hand free of the confines of the voluminous sleeve, reaching up to touch the smooth mask with light fingertips. "That would be rather counterproductive to a peaceful stay. You don't have to worry, Jackal, you will live. I like you, after all." Harry removed the man's mask, contemplating the snarling visage for a long moment before turning to study Jackal's revealed face.

Harry thought it was an odd thing to notice, but the man was actually somewhat attractive – very nearly _pretty_. And quite young. In his late teens, skin healthily tanned –_he must not have worn his mask all the time; must have a _life_ outside his duties as ANBU_– with nearly auburn hair and pale green eyes… His coloring was quite striking. At the moment, though, to look upon his face was disquieting; it was as blank of emotion as the vulpine mask that Harry had just taken from him.

Harry quirked a smile, watching inscrutable jade eyes track his free hand as it rose, coming closer, only to still just a hair from touching newly exposed skin. It was _amusing_, because Jackal was watching Harry's long, spidery fingers instead of the translucent serpent coiled around his forearm, watching predatorily.

Apparently, the ninja was unable to see Pretty.

Jackal twitched when Harry's fingers made contact: Harry dropped the mask and held the man's head firmly in place between his palms, –momentarily chagrined at his lost height _(because, though Harry had never grown very tall, he'd _still_ lost height with his change… and Voldemort had always been tall, original body and other)_– readying himself, calming and softening his magic so he could _be careful_. He breathed in through his teeth as he _pushed_ and _smoothed_, and muttered aloud to the room to _remind himself_. "This doesn't have to hurt, don't fight, don't push… I won't make it hurt, I just need to _know_…

"Look at me," he compelled, voice laced with an _order_ as green eyes turned away, tried to close. "Legilimens!"

_The mission, in and of itself, was a stark contradiction. Assigned permanently to five members of the ANBU Black Ops and a semi-retired shinobi of the Torture and Interrogation department: An A-rank, off the books, __**babysitting **__mission. The Hokage had practically said as much… maybe just a bit more officially. _

_ It wasn't until he started hearing Sparrow's reports on the Orochimaru-kid –they were encouraged to trade observations to flesh out Yamanaka's overall report– that he started to really understand the need for such an odd mission. For some ungodly reason, the boy –**Hari**, he'd told them, and what a name it was…– had taken a shine to Sparrow and did more than sit silently in his room when it was the older man's turn to take watch. He did things that the Interrogation Specialist warned them of, things that reflected the torture he suffered, but also things that hinted at the …unnatural._

_ It started taking its toll on Sparrow, and even Owl (and wasn't it **damned strange** to see the woman without her mask, but after working S-rank missions together it was hard **not** to recognize her) expressed unease with the strange boy. She confessed that his chakra –untrained like a civilian's, but bizarrely elusive to detect– had an alien feel that put her on edge. "Inhuman." She said._

_ When Hokage-sama told them that the boy **had** to be in the Tower during the second stage of the ongoing Chuunin exams, it was decided that he was the most well-equipped of the team to take **Hari** (being as proficient with Genjutsu as he was, even if he lacked the experience the older ANBU had). It was only then that he was give access to the only written compilation of the team's reports to prepare. It was… enlightening._

_ The first part of the report was strictly about the boy's physical health, and it was lengthy with observations. He could be twelve, but not much older (he hadn't yet entered puberty, apparently) and was about average height for that age, though he was severely underweight. He weighed 62 pounds, exactly, and hadn't gained or lost an ounce in the entire six weeks; he should have been **dying**, but while he wasn't **thriving**, he also wasn't getting any worse…_

_ (They'd found pictures from Orochimaru's youth. It seemed that beyond the obvious similarities in coloring, **Hari** shared the same, delicately sharp facial structure as well…)_

_ Supposition noted extensive serpentine features: Sharp, fanglike teeth, a forked black tongue (that he **did** use to taste the air, just like a snake; it gave him chills just thinking about it), and a neat line of thick scales down his spine. Theories on those features included much of everything. Orochimaru manipulating his own genetic material with that of a snakes'; someone **else** doing the same; a lost member of the Snake Sannin's dead family; **Hari** not being related to Orochimaru at all, but the spawn of some lesser Snake demon (the most horrifying though; if he was both Orochimaru's progeny **and** part demon)… The demon angle was helped along by the unbelievable revelation that **somehow** his body broke down **every** scrap of food into some useable energy._

_ The report noted, almost as an afterthought, the numerous scars that littered his body, old and new. The boy wasn't forthcoming about his scars most of the time, but the majority were obvious enough. **Hari** only got particularly defensive about one of them, a thick scar that ran across his back from shoulder to hip. When Yamanaka had asked, the boy snarled about the poor aim of his 'allies'._

_ He didn't care about who the boy's father might have been; when Owl had finally been able to do a proper physical exam, and discovered the full extent of his scarring… No one could blame him for his readily apparent near-phobia of touch._

_ After that came an in-depth analysis of his psychological health, and a profile made through use of Yamanaka Inoichi's extensive knowledge of the Mind. It was considerably longer._

_ According to the Yamanaka, the damage to the pale boy's mind was far more extensive than anything done to his body. The physical manifestation of his mind was dark and scarred, bleeding and horrible. The pervasive smell of rot and decay hinted that at least **some** of the significant damage was **old** and festering, left untreated. Even the representation of his consciousness –the avatar of his body within his mind– was hurt just by **being** there. _

_ The Interrogator confessed a fear that he had only made the psychic damage worse by dragging the boy's consciousness into his physical mind. Let alone releasing repressed memories of **torture**. He still couldn't understand how the boy could **think**, let alone interact with them on the level that he did._

_ Most of the 'behaviors' listed in the report came from Sparrow and Yamanaka, though it was Sparrow who found many of **Hari's** quirks – the little fits of obvious insanity that Yamanaka expected. It was beginning to take its toll on the thirty-something man; this was his last mission as ANBU after nearly ten years of service in the Black Ops, and he was edgy. It was hard not to be, when the ophidian boy had a potent enough gaze to be felt through his blindfold –(and more than once, when they spoke of it, the speculation of demon blood and a new doujutsu came up; how this boy could be the start of a new bloodlimit)– and sometimes enjoyed sly psychological warfare in the hallway._

_ The worst part was, that most of the time **Hari** didn't seem to realize what he was **doing**…_

_ The list of things that qualified as 'consequences of psychological damage' was **extensive**. The 'tame' quirks included long hours –sometimes **days**– of total immobility and silence, coupled with the penchant for covering his window and sitting in the dark. He was hyperaware of people at those times, and would rather place his back to a corner –foiling any 'escape' routes– than have someone stand behind him. He enunciated his words slowly, a strange sibilant hiss in his voice, and sometimes didn't seem to understand what was said to him… most often after one of his 'fits', when he would take to covering his head and sitting in the corner. He never acknowledged social niceties in regards to one's name, and had apparently been amused by early insistences for him to do so._

_ The boy's screaming nightmares were expected; for lack of any other place to qualify them, they were placed in that section. _

_ The rest of his habits had to be made note of, if only to be thorough. They ranged from 'odd' to 'potentially dangerous'. His insistence on wearing an oversized, pullover robe that reeked of his own blood was something that would turn even some ninja's stomachs. Sparrow had witnessed, more than once, the boy talking to himself in another language; not just talking, but having a **conversation**. The boy's tone and posture, even **inflection**, would changed from one sentence to the next. When told, Yamanaka wrote the cautious suspicion of a split personality: One, the lackadaisical, jaded, resigned boy and the other a sharp, fierce, **offensive** authority._

_ All those things, however, could be found in most any study of prolonged, dehumanizing torture. No, he now realized the **reason **the damaged, weak boy needed to be watched by a contingent of ANBU, locked in the Ward reserved for dangerous, off-the-books prisoners. One completely independent from his frightful resemblance to one of their most well-known traitors._

_ **Hari** possessed a power they had never seen before; unnatural and potentially deadly if only for the lack of information they had on it. There was terrible potential, for all that they'd only seen it once._

_ He could still remember carrying the filthy, bony intruder from the Tower so long ago – could remember being stunned when Yamanaka's family jutsu suddenly ended, leaving the blond dazed and **guilty**. He had been there, when the boy had disappeared from Interrogation's seals with only a crack of displaced air. The chakra seals on the chair the boy had disappeared from were still intact and functioning; his power **was not chakra**._

_ There were other things they couldn't prove, but suspected the power of anyway. The mirror **Hari** broke in the hospital, for example. There was nothing to suggest why it had broken; there was not point of impact, no blood on the shards. It was like it just… fell apart. But the boy had **apologized** for breaking it. Took **responsibility **for it. The way Owl's healing chakra worked at only twenty percent efficiency when it came in contact with the boy, as if were drained into an empty, yearning hole._

_ The only reason they hadn't been given the order to execute the boy because of that power was the wary hope that they could one day utilize it. That, and **Hari** had never shown any inclination to attack them with it, or use it **at all**. Never intentionally. He privately thought that the boy didn't have much control of his power at all, not after what he'd said to Yamanaka about his eyes._

_ (And though it wasn't in the report, not yet, Sparrow confided in him –as a friend more than a shinobi– that it sometimes felt like the boy would act in a certain way… Calm, when all his behavior before said he **should have** been on edge. Angry when he should have been calm. His bird-masked fellow said the boy knew too much; knew what someone would say before they actually did. A little like the Yamanaka clan could, when they became exceptionally proficient in their family jutsu... Like he could read their minds. But then he'd sighed and said that he was probably being too paranoid –his judgment clouded by **Hari's** resemblance to Orochimaru– and was ready for his retirement from ANBU, right after the Chuunin exams… That hospital guard duty was **supposed** to be a good way to ease out of the mindset…)_

_ So this mission **was** necessary, quite possibly life-threatening. Not the first in his short tenure in the Black Ops, but one of the most interesting. At least the boy had only been passively, almost causally, threatening. Probably Orochimaru's son and possibly of demon heritage (as if Konoha didn't already have enough to deal with, with the Kyuubi sealed up inside the Uzumaki brat!); the mission no one but the Hokage would ever hold proof of, and most certainly a concern to the safety of Konoha… But…_

_ As he watched the huddled form of the kid –face hidden against his knees and arms curled tightly, defensively, to his chest– he couldn't help but soften some. **Hari** could be dangerous, but then again anyone pushed far enough could be dangerous. This boy, no older that the average graduating genin, had been through more than most peacetime jounin would ever have to bear._

_ It heartened him to know **Hari** could still act like a normal enough boy most of the time, and when he **did** regress it was more likely to be a defensive reaction than a violent one. It meant there was less of a chance they would have to… eliminate the boy. And it may have been unprofessional, but he didn't want to have to kill the kid._

_ (It wasn't the boy's fault…)_

_ He was only somewhat concerned at **Hari's** lack of response when one of the Tower chuunin came to let him know (covertly) that the boy's presence was not welcome in this room any longer. Concern turned to perplexity, then understanding when the boy wasn't roused by his voice, or a careful hand on the bony, covered shoulder: Forced unconscious after a breakdown for** four days**, and then suffering another breakdown… It would exhaust anyone._

_ So he gingerly carried **Hari** to one of the small, out of the way rooms, and was struck again by how **light** he was. How someone could live so long with their body in such a state… it just cemented the idea that the snakelike features meant more than a clan jutsu, meant something inhuman…_

_ It bothered him less than it did the rest of the shinobi on this mission, if only because of the stories he was raised on. His grandparents had been a huge part of his childhood –telling him stories and legends that they heard in **their** youth. They had come to Konohagakure from the far western reaches of Wind Country, where the vast deserts clashed with the dangerous, uncharted wilderness. Where even the most skilled shinobi would still go missing. _

_ Where the wild beasts were cunning enough to learn human speech and lure people to their deaths._

_ Where demons were said to lurk._

_ Even if they were only stories… it was easy to believe in such things, in his line of work. Some of the things he'd **seen**…_

_ As he watched the pale boy –trembling but still unconscious on the bed– he thought that **Hari** probably knew the truth of his heritage; why else would he have so ferociously denied Owl from taking his blood for testing? But it was of no matter now, for she had drawn a sufficient sample during his four day 'coma'. They just had to wait for the odd energy to fade –the power interfered with their equipment, but every day the range decreased a bit more– and they could test **Hari's** relation to Orochimaru. And for anything else strange._

_ A low, keening wail filled the room; **Hari** twitched and shuddered on the bed, face nearly gray and jaw locked, obviously in agony. Before he could even make it across the room, the boy let out a strained gasp and all was still again. Much too still._

_ Without hesitation he reached out, pressing two fingers gently to the pulse point on the delicate looking neck (and he would have to go and alter the report; the scar across his throat was actually **two**, one at least a year older). He was unsurprised to find no pulse, though he cursed softly anyway. The Hokage wasn't going to take the news of the boy's death very well, not when everyone else thought it better for him to remain at the hospital still…_

_ He jerked back in surprise when **Hari** drew in a slow, strained breath, then exhaled equally as slowly. He watched the barely visible rise and fall of his chest for a few seconds before reaching out again to check his pulse for irregularities – a heart didn't just **stop** for no reason._

_ He wrenched his hand back as if the ghastly white skin had burned him, though it may have been less unexpected if it **had**. The boy was breathing, slow and steady, but his heart wasn't beating; he was **dead**._

_ Though startled he fell back on his ingrained training, forming the seal to make a Shadow Clone –unwilling to leave **Hari** but in need of backup– but staying firmly at the boy's side._

_ (That was the mistake.)_

_ The moment he began to mold his chakra he knew something was wrong; it felt like he was trapped in a chakra-draining jutsu, like little hungry mouths were ripping, tearing, devouring. His jutsu failed before his clone could even appear._

_ Not a moment later he was suddenly bound –shoulders to ankles, with barely enough slack to **breathe** let alone reach a weapon– and somehow attached to the wall he had been farthest from, a foot off the floor, and no clue how he got there. Shimmering lights overtook his vision; blues and purples and one angry red-orange, before they flickered and settled over the door, disappearing. He knew, without a doubt, that **Hari** had to be the cause._

_ Time passed, hours, but no one ever came to the room. It must have been because of whatever **Hari** did; the patrol was supposed to stop by every second hour. He tried to escape the mysterious ropes, but they were too strong to break with the little leverage he could find, too tight to allow him to reach **any** of his hidden blades, and his chakra was drained as fast as he could mold it…_

_ He wasn't as fearful for his life as he could have been. Because when he thought about it, **Hari** had never tried to attack any of them before, however many times he could have with this strange power. Because **Hari** was tortured before, and must be hurt now, and was reacting on instinct against a perceived threat…_

_ (But he wasn't awake. He was **dead**. How..?)_

_ He hoped that was the case, anyway._

_ Doubt crept upon him as the hours crawled by. What if **Hari** was not only a demon, but akuma –**evil**– and this was all a long ruse, some game with malicious intent? If he **was** akuma, he had power enough and the cunning to strike a harsh blow against Konoha, even if he wasn't one of the great Tailed Beasts…_

_ The sound of the room's only light bulb exploding drew his attention in time to see the boy jerk upright with a gasp, his thin, bony hands curled over his heart. It was only when he attempted to call the boy's name –being overridden by a quiet __**giggle**__ of all things– that he realized his voice had been stolen. When he moved and flared his chakra –_**Hari** had shown himself to be hyperaware of their chakra flares_– he was rewarded with another, much more __**sinister**__ laugh. _

_ Against his will, something in that sound reached a deeper level of his psyche, and a wave of primal fear washed over him. His instinctual fear wasn't assuaged at all when the (undead) pale boy began to **hiss**. In that moment the angularity of his face, the smooth way he moved, the way his sharp teeth –**fangs**…– glinted in the light, the way his forked, black tongue casually flicked out to taste the air (how did something so aberrant look so natural?)… Every ophidian trait seemed **that much** more obvious._

_ When **Hari** spoke, casually demanding to know the source of his current fear –wrapping the demand in a polite, patronizing question the same way some interrogators did–, he couldn't help but be reluctantly impressed that no signs of his earlier breakdown were apparent. (That is, if he **wasn't** an evil demon and this **wasn't** a huge act. But then, kudos would have to be given for his acting; he might've made a good shinobi, with such skills in infiltration.)_

_ A **soft** feeling washed over him, urging him to speak, to tell the truth. He tried hard to still his tongue –on principle– as another new facet of **Hari's** power was worked on him, but ultimately failed as the urging softness pulsed harder behind his eyes._

_ Even with the blindfold hiding **Hari's** eyes, it was surprisingly easy to read the boy's face, as he unwillingly stuttered out the demanded 'fear': 'Dying but not dead' was somehow easier to admit that 'something about you makes me want to run, and not stop'. **Hari** appeared to take the news in stride, though he expressed a certain wonderment that suggested he hadn't expected such news._

_ (It was good; it meant this wasn't a **regular** thing, a **demon** thing.)_

_ Unsettlingly, he also appeared **pleased**, an inherently sinister expression flickering onto his face, but gone in a second._

_ His heart nearly stopped when **Hari** insinuated his death would keep him from telling anyone of the boy's powers. When the threat of death was casually waved off as 'counterproductive', though, he didn't find himself reassured, especially not with the statement it continued into._

_ (So, he would live, but after whatever the boy did would he **want** to?)_

_ He wished he wasn't so curious about what the boy intended to do –if he would do something so blasé as trying to 'silence' him, or if there was yet another aspect of his power to be revealed– as his mask was removed and he **felt** unseen eyes studying his face. He couldn't begin to understand why the boy started **smiling** –a real smile, not that bitter, angry smirk he'd seen previously– at him, nor why sharp-nailed fingers were suddenly so close to his face._

_ **Hari** continued to smile up at him, forcefully tilting his head down with surprisingly strong hands, until he **knew** their gazes were locked. (Were the boy's covered eyes those of a serpent as well? A predatory, hypnotic gaze barely dampened by the dark blindfold he willingly donned?) Chill palms held him still while long fingers threaded his hair in an unsettlingly intimate gesture, and he only kept himself from jerking away when he heard light whispers of hissing speech, talking of pain and knowledge._

_ (No! Kami-sama, Sparrow was right!)_

_ The soft pulsing behind his eyes urged him not to blink, and he felt something numb and slick squirming into his head—_

Harry blinked and shook off the brief disorientation of leaving Jackal's mind, curiously observing the man's wide eyes and too-pale face. He was sure he hadn't hurt the ANBU, though… Ah. That's right. He'd grown so accustomed… He'd forgotten that most people back home viewed forced Legilimency as something akin to the rape of the mind; it was probably the same sort of personal invasion among the ninja…

He licked his lips and stepped back, removing his hands from Jackal's face, ignoring Pretty's curious hisses as he integrated the vast load of information he'd stolen. A long moment passed before he looked at the ANBU again, taking in the shell-shocked appearance –_(…with only the faintest stirrings of guilt. He _had_ been gentle! He'd let Jackal's thoughts and memories meander along their own path instead of _forcing_ them!)_– before he spoke.

"I told you, you would live." Harry said placidly, summoning the discarded mask to his hand. "The question is, what to do with you now?"

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** Everything looks a little different from someone else's perspective... Let this be a reminder to you that Harry is not omnipotent :3 Just keep in mind that the ninja don't know everything, either... Feel free to tell me what you liked and didn't about this chapter; I'm very much curious to what you think about it...

(Pretty returns! Bwahahaha!)


	15. Chapter 13: Of Two Minds

**A/N:** Long wait, no? Well, I have my excuses all prepared. It turned out that the rough draft of this chapter was crap, and I got halfway through typing it before I threw up my hands and said "Screw this!" and just re-wrote the damned thing. There were also RL issues, such as me shelling out a fuckton of money taking my cat to the vet (the issue is still unresolved, by the way, so there's more to come), the death of two of my three snakes within two weeks of one another, and just general RL being busy.

Thanks to everyone who kindly poked me with sharp sticks to get my ass in gear, though ;3 Hope you enjoy the chapter~

Chapter 13; Of Two Minds

There was a trick, Harry reflected, to not feeling the sharp sting of guilt. A trick to not feeling too strongly about anything, really.

So, he happened to be absolutely inept at Occlumency, incapable of using magic to shield and organize and _hide_ his memories… But long before Harry became aware of the untapped power within himself, he had discovered a way to _not think_ about things. He locked it up.

The resentment he felt for his relatives? Bundled away and locked in a box; apt, for the pleasure they took in locking him in the Cupboard. The loneliness of being outcast amongst the other children? Buried in a hole so deep that he stopped _caring_. The burn of hate, of _disgust_, when his teacher wouldn't _stop_, wouldn't _leave him alone_..? Hidden so far that he almost forgot why he didn't like people to touch him. Almost.

By the time the weight of Cedric's and Sirius' deaths settled onto his shoulders, Harry barely had to try. After that, any guilt or doubts were pushed so far away that they would be nearly impossible to uncover. It was what allowed him to so firmly exclude Ron and Hermione from his training, and eventually what allowed him to keep his wandless magic secret from Voldemort's relentless Legilimency.

_(It was so easy, to just not _think_ about something…)_

It was that avoidance of thought that Harry utilized just then, as he left the tiny room Jackal brought him to. The ANBU –limp and unmoving, sprawled over the cot-like bed– wouldn't be discovered until the weak repelling charm on the door failed and the rest of the privacy wards came down. Harry told himself that there was no purpose to feeling guilt for taking actions he knew to be necessary; Jackal simply knew too much of his magic, and Harry knew that if the man was allowed to spread word of that he would very likely be hunted down. Killed.

Stilling suddenly beneath his advanced invisibility spell –an involved bit of magic, but necessary to avoid the Tower's cameras– Harry chided himself for his egregious inattentiveness. Suddenly more keen to his surroundings, Harry slipped in the open doors to the large arena-room; the thin net of magic sent out to _feel_ counted about twenty shinobi, some of them registering as familiar.

Debating for only a moment –the invisibility really _did_ take quite a bit of concentration– Harry layered a heavy notice-me-not spell over himself instead, and stepped farther into the room. The familiar presences were easy to identify once he started actually looking; the Hokage, for example, stood on the platform very close to the corner Harry had occupied some nine hours previous. The Yamanaka child –Ino– was up there as well…

Harry paused when he realized it was Ino's teammate –the smart one, the one with such branching, complicated thoughts– that was _fighting_ a long-haired girl on the arena floor. He appeared disoriented, and Harry felt a strange ripple against his senses when the girl threw… _senbon_: The chime of small bells rang out, and the boy was unable to stumble out of the needle's path. He watched this with interest, and a sense of foreboding worry, as the bell-girl suddenly froze and mirrored her opponent's stance. _Exactly_.

Harry stifled an uneasy laugh as the little shinobi dodged one another's thrown weapons, resulting in the girl smashing her head against the wall behind her as she bent back. The majority of his attention was warily fixed on the dark shadow streaming from the boy, apparently what granted him that control. _Danger_.

Shaking himself and sidestepping the medics come to carry away the unconscious girl, Harry drifted up the stairs silently, eyes set on where the Hokage stood. It was important that he be there before anyone found Jackal. He needed to be there so he could discover what they would _do_…

As he reached the top of the stairs, slinking unobtrusively into the corner, a sickly man on the floor called out: "Next match! Uzumaki Naruto vs. Inuzuka Kiba." Harry tilted his head, acknowledging the new, familiar name. Wasn't that..?

Alarm shot through him like a bolt of electricity when the strikingly bright blue eyes of the orange eyesore glanced at him curiously, heedless of the charm that _should_ have kept Harry unnoticed. A tendril of unseen magic reached out to prod the boy –now on the floor below, trading insults with his opponent– and found a massive, furious, and _inhuman_ energy buried deeply beneath the cool human chakra.

Before true realization even came, Harry's eyes sought out the _other_ source in the room, the one that made his stomach churn uneasily because it had _come after him_ before. Harry saw him, the smallest of the shinobi on the opposite platform, among a fraction of the number that stood on this side; red hair and light, dark-ringed eyes and without a doubt _looking at him_.

Harry's hands twitched in an aborted movement, the desire to tug his hood lower over his face almost overwhelming. After a moment his fingers found contact with the sleek scales of his incorporeal companion, and Harry forced himself to look away from the first source and back to the new one. The blond was taking quite the beating from his opponent.

With cautious, light brushes of his magic Harry realized that the two inhuman chakras were actually quite different. Though he _knew_ without a hint of doubt that the source in the blond was exponentially more powerful, he also realized that it was also more securely trapped and away from the shinobi's native chakra. It felt… _red_, and barely stirred at all when Harry's magic wrapped around its human host more deliberately.

In a slow, dull way that was very much unlike his usual function, Harry recalled why one of the boy's names was familiar. Uzumaki Naruto. _Uzumaki_. Jackal had thought that name, immediately following his speculation on Harry's lineage, on demons. Something 'sealed' inside the 'Uzumaki brat'.

Harry glanced between the fighting blond and the still-staring redhead, frowning, trying to ignore the uneasy fluttering in his chest; he couldn't help but place the both of them in a category separate from the other ninja. Young…but far more deadly that their ages or appearances gave the impression of, if only they tapped that power…

Blinking slowly as he attempted to shake off the foreboding thoughts, Harry realized that he was having a hard time keeping hold of time – that his distraction had been enough that he'd missed where the little white dog had gone, and how the _second_ feral boy had come to be. His tenuous grasp on reality didn't help; if anything the screams of his self-preservation instincts were _louder_ in face of the boy-shinobi's fast, _physical_ attacks.

And Harry was angry. Angry that he was so stupid to have ignored all the signs that had been shoved in his face. That he hadn't realized that there was more to these shinobi than their chakra, that he'd been blinded by the thought of the near-magical potential they could achieve with it.

The shinobi he was watching then –_twin spirals of flurried attacks, the orange eyesore thrown between them, pummeled_– were only _genin_. The _weakest_. They may have all been there to be tested, to advance their rank and standing, but these children –most of them the same age his body was!– _were not_ the strongest ninja around. Not by a long shot. And Harry knew beyond reasonable doubt that just one of those hits that the blond recovered from would have _easily_ broken his frail bones.

These shinobi were physically strong, and Harry was not. With one good, clear hit any one of the people around him could incapacitate or _kill_ him before he could escape. Or even defend himself. Very few of the standard shield charms, the ones that came to him almost instinctively now, could protect against solid, physical hits.

Harry didn't like this. Oh no, not at all.

"Lord Harry?" Pretty whispered hesitantly; it took Harry a second too long to realize that his magic was beginning to manifest his unease. He took a slow, deep breath to calm himself, and the slight chill in the air around him dissipated. That was another thing, his magic reacting to his emotions so strongly; though emotion-driven spells were so much more powerful, it was terrible to try to keep it secret, requiring control he _did not have_.

"I want to escape these _people_," Harry whispered back venomously. "I need to get away, to prepare myself against their abilities. But if I were to simply _leave_ they would never give up hunting me…"

"Can you not wipe your existence from their minds and memories?" The ghostly serpent returned slyly, head peeking out of the collar of his robe to nuzzle against his chin.

It _seemed_ like the perfect solution…but Harry knew better. He blew out a short sigh.

"It is doubtful that I could find all the people who have seen me, and even less a chance of getting to them all before my part had been discovered. Even if I could, they have proof in words, inscribed and hidden in their leader's place, where I cannot reach." Harry rubbed a hand over his face, drawn. "It would only be worse for me if they learned I could addle their minds as well."

Pretty let out a stuttering hiss that sounded remarkably like a sigh, and Harry knew that his companion understood the problem.

"I'll think of something," Harry muttered, more to himself than his companion, and then immediately frowned. That sounded so… _juvenile_. He _hated_ how…how unprepared it made him sound. How unrepentantly _Gryffindor_…but he had never felt so bitter about belonging to the House of Lions before. His frown deepened. "I _will_ think of something."

Voldemort may have infected him with his soul, but Harry had won this battle before. He was still _himself_.

_(He had to keep telling himself that, he _had_ to.)_

Sharp, hidden eyes panned over the room suspiciously, taking in anything that could be the _something_ he needed, the perfect excuse to slip the bonds of Konoha's supervision. He skipped over the blond and his smothered red chakra; over the old Hokage who was blissfully unaware of Harry's presence in the room; over all the child warriors with leaf-marked hitai-ate, avidly watching the fight below. Away from everyone but the boy with blank, bruised eyes watching him from across the room.

An idea sprouted, dark and _wonderful_, but Harry was still wary of getting too close to that aggressive chakra unless he had no other option. It would be so _easy_, though, to provoke that inhuman chakra into action, into attacking him. Leaving could be as easy as apparating away, and no one would even suspect him of anything…they could not blame him for fleeing for his life…

Harry missed the match ending, but the winner was obvious; despite the heavy beating he took the blond seemed to have boundless energy. Again, those bright blue eyes looked at him strangely as the boy passed him on the way to his team. Harry followed the boy with his eyes –feeling still the heavy gaze of the redhead across the room– and tentatively decided that it must have been the inhuman chakra the boys held that let them see through his spell. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that the strange chakra most likely belonged to _demons_, or that they were aware of his magic at all when nothing else seemed to be.

"Quiet, now." Harry murmured to his companion, finally moving beyond his indecision and towards the fringes of the gathered shinobi. The way they were clustered led him to believe that the spectators on this side were all familiar with one another; unlike the ninja on the other deck –who stood with large a large amount of space between each group– the teams mingled freely. Harry cautiously increased the magic in the charm that kept him hidden, and almost considered trying to layer it with invisibility before he banished the idea. He didn't have enough practice to guarantee he could keep the spells stable together, and he wouldn't try now when a failed casting would surely bring down any existing spells.

As he skirted by a man in a ridiculous green jumpsuit –_another who could probably break his neck without even trying_– Harry wondered if anything had come of Orochimaru's supposed plot to infiltrate the exam. From the tidbits he'd stolen from Inoichi –and then a little more from Jackal– it was the foreign teams that would be most likely used for whatever he was plotting…

_(Harry couldn't help but think –the thoughts coming unbidden, unwanted, and with _experience_– that infiltration was best carried out with _spies_ and not outside elements. That he should look more closely at the people _of_ Konoha, instead.)_

He smothered the urge to snort, glancing uneasily at the shinobi as he quickly passed through one's line of sight, and pushed his thoughts of Orochimaru aside. Though the awareness that the Hokage had wanted Harry to be in the Tower _just then_ –probably _visibly_ and as _bait_, at that– remained on the periphery of his mind, there were more important things to concentrate on than what the ninja though about him in relation to their enemy… Like navigating through the gathered shinobi without brushing against them and causing a big scene when they discovered him.

"…Hinata's medicine is amazing!" A loud voice cut through is focused attention, and Harry glanced back as he passed a strong –_dangerous_– chakra belonging to a white-haired man with a cloth mask covering his lower face. Making sure he wasn't under anyone's direct gaze –_(Out of sight, out of mind…)_– Harry's eyes first stuck on a girl with raggedly cut _pink_ hair, and then skipped to the speaker. The blond, who may or may not have a demon trapped inside of him.

Harry couldn't help but notice the miraculous speed with which his scrapes healed. That was the work of no medicine Harry _(or Voldemort)_ had ever seen; only a lot of raw magic or a good healing spell under an experienced wand could do that. Potions that worked that fast always left scars behind, even if only temporarily.

Harry shook his head –_later, he could look more closely into the boy later_– and made to continue on, but as if sensing his gaze the blond looked up: His tanned face squinted up into a confused, belligerently curious expression that was nearly cringe-worthy for its openness.

"Hey, hey, who're you?" The orange-clad genin demanded, tilting his head in an attempt to peer through the deep shadows the hood cast over Harry's face. Before the boy had even finished speaking, Harry was backing away, trying to keep out of the gazes drawn by the demon-boy's exclamation.

"Who… are you talking to, Naruto?" Asked the pink-haired girl, almost reluctantly, her eyes slipping over his cloaked form blindly. Still cautiously creeping backwards, it was impossible to miss the painfully confused look the yellow-blond wore. He pointed at Harry, a large frown pulling his face in an unattractively petulant way.

"Right there, Sakura-chan, with the hood." Heart beating painfully fast –_anxiety, anticipation; never fear for _this– Harry snarled and drew as much power as he could into the spell that was the only thing keeping him hidden.

In a move that was obvious to any wizard or witch, all the eyes that had been drawn near Harry by the blond's pointing suddenly turned _away_. Harry almost felt fear then (had he been too obvious? Had he just inadvertently revealed himself?), except the spell apparently caused some strange effect in… _Uzumaki_. Bright blue eyes glazed over momentarily, unfocused, and the boy actually _staggered_.

Barely daring to breathe, Harry stilled his retreat as a lone, dark eye glanced briefly _around_ him: Harry had gleaned enough from the thoughts of others to know a jounin on sight, and know what it meant. "Do I need to call the medics for you, Naruto?" His voice was low and didn't express anything but long-suffering boredom, and Harry almost sighed when it drew the blond's attention from him at last.

Then his mind –_too slow; he was usually more quick, wasn't he?_– caught up with the implications and Harry bit down on a laugh: The stagger, the glazed look, seeing something no one else could… The jounin though Uzumaki was suffering the effects of a head injury!

With a mild smirk, Harry quickly turned and began carefully weaving his way through the other shinobi – all stopped to watch the boy's little spectacle. "No, Kakashi-sensei, I'm alright—Hey!" He had just passed a boy wearing a jumpsuit suspiciously identical to the jounin he'd passed already when the blond exclaimed, and Harry sensed the demon-boy lunge at his back—

_ No!_

Harry spun at the last moment, just as the boy's tanned fingers brushed the fabric of his robe, and a pointed stab of magic struck into the other. The genin stopped dead, blue eyes glazed as he swayed in place: Harry slipped away before the momentary confusion of the Confundus spell wore off and he could be pursued again. Shuddering with adrenaline, he lifted a hand to his head and changed the focus of his magic just slightly, to something he _knew_ he could cast safely; when he tapped his crown, the cold trickle of disillusionment settled over him.

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief when the next fight was called and everyone turned their attention back to the arena. Glancing back only briefly Harry saw Uzumaki leaning over the railing enthusiastically, showing no lingering effects from the spell, though his white-haired teacher was standing a bit closer to his student than before.

_(Safe. He was safe.)_

With the loose folds of his robe held tight to his body, Harry wove between those of little-Yamanaka's team. Though the urge to lash out and hurt the little mind-reader was still there, it was easier to ignore with such a strong objective in mind, and his goal in sight. He still had to tread carefully, however; neither of the spells cloaking him were perfect. Though the notice-me-not charm would make people ignore what they _should_ see –and strong enough, what they should _hear_– it couldn't always force them to disregard direct contact if the person was alert enough…

Alert and aware in the way Jackal's memories said all ninja were trained to be.

As he drew closer to the aged Hokage –and the scarred brute of a man standing at his side– Harry tasted something strange in the air, a scent barely discernable from the many others emanating from the gathered humans. Dirt, sweat, blood; skin, leather, cloth; fear, bloodlust, anticipation… _faint, old snake skin_… Under all that –getting faintly more detectable the closer he came to the two men– was something slightly bitter that clung to his tongue like the juice of an herb he could almost remember…

"My Lord," Pretty whispered, bright red tongue tasting the air, flickering furiously. "The dark hunter, I cannot smell them. The false skin they wear, yes, but not the human." Harry tilted his head down to brush his lips over the phantom, acknowledging, even as he stopped and looked more keenly at the _heavily_ scarred man.

His eyes traced the two thick, almost ropy scars crossing prominently over the shinobi's broad face, and the first thing Harry though was just how _very much_ those must have bled. The second was somewhat vain thankfulness that he at least could _hide_ the scars he carried. And the third thought was of what _other_ scars the man had, because Harry was only a few feet away and he could see strange dimples in the bandana's material…

He blinked slowly when a sluggish hypothesis crawled from the whirling depths of his mind, and wondered just how likely it was that those _(deliberate-looking)_ scars came _only_ from combat. _No, not very likely at all…_

Shaking off his fanciful ponderings, Harry quickly passed behind the two to stand at the railing a few feet away. He was still close at hand, but far enough away to hopefully remain undetected. If his guess wasn't mistaken, any 'urgent' news would be brought to the Hokage's attention… Certainly, news of Harry's 'disappearance' and _Jackal_ would be urgent. And if Harry could listen in on what they thought of that, what they would _do _— that information was priceless, and could decide his entire future in this world.

Harry licked dry lips and deliberately looked away from the old leader, leaning over the railing some to better see the two dark-haired genin on the floor below. Head tilted to one side as he listened to the male verbally pick apart his …cousin?... Harry decided that he was unimpressed by the boy's attitude, even if he had to acknowledge the skill it took to cut the girl to the state of a quivering mouse. Not even through fear! Playing with another person's doubts and failings was something he'd not done since his earliest Hogwarts' years…

_(No, not Harry – Voldemort. Tom Riddle had used such tactics against his classmates, not Harry Potter…)_

Harry pressed a palm to his temple and sent a careful pulse of magic through his head in an attempt to rid himself of the …odd, disorienting feeling. Forcing his attention back on the ninja's match didn't do much to distract him from the oddness; the magic cast out to allow him to so clearly sense the shinobi also made him aware of the chakra the two used to enhance the power of their strikes. He could _feel_ it when their chakra pushed forcefully into the other's body, and the way each landed blow disrupted the brightness of their chakra a little more.

He narrowed his eyes in distaste as the rather one-sided match continued, though if he didn't lie to himself he began to experience the faintest pinprick of _fear_. Through the knowledge gained from Jackal he was aware that the healer –Owl– had sensed chakra within him… but Harry couldn't feel it. All Harry could feel was his magic.

But if he had chakra –the power of these _shinobi_– or something close enough that an experienced _medic_ couldn't tell the difference… It meant that they could attack him and hurt him the same way they fought and hurt their own.

His fingers twitched around the handrail, eyes wide and unseeing as the thoughts swarmed him, drowned him. He had never realized it before –not really–, how strange this world was, how alien and different it was from his own. The dangers he could protect himself from changed and replaced with ones he'd never had to anticipate, would have never thought to look at before.

Even the young ones –the _children_, the _weak_– moved so quickly, and fought so hard, and Harry _(Voldemort – whoever, whatever, he was)_ felt woefully unprepared. A wizard's battle could move quickly, yes, could involve rapid movement, but very rarely were spells cast from less than six feet from the target. Close-distance combat was unwise, because offensive spells cast within the aura of another wizard could weaken or even _warp_ the magic… but the ninja thrived in those conditions.

He wasn't ready, he wasn't prepared. Harry had never trained himself to fight anyone who would gleefully get into his personal space and _break him_…

When the inexplicable weakness hit, Harry didn't even try to keep on his feet; he slid down the support of the rail and curled against it until he was able to keep an eye on the ongoing match. An odd fogginess clouded up his head like a stinging, poison fog, and no matter how hard he tried his magic couldn't clear it up. Harry bit down hard on the distressed whine he could feel building in his throat _(quietquietquiet, danger too near, quiet…)_.

Pretty, no longer staring between the two boys with inhuman chakra, coiled up higher around Harry's neck and rubbed its head against his fluttering pulse. Harry shuddered at the searing contact, but slowly relaxed into the heat the phantom radiated – he hadn't realized he was so very _cold_. He also hadn't realized that his nose was bleeding until he scented the air and the thick, bitter flavor of his lifeblood bloomed on his tongue.

"You are far too cold, Lord Harry, but I do not smell sickness… You should escape from the hunter's place before they use this against you." Its voice, quiet and whispery, gained a quality that made its next words sound sour. "Unless this is a problem the _humans_ can make better?"

It took a half-dozen times of replaying his companion's words in his head before he could make sense of what it spoke, and heavy dread crept over him. His mind was slowing, was failing him, leaving him helpless at the worst time; if they found him now, away from Jackal and dazed as he was they would only assume the worst.

Harry felt a poignant sensation, deep in his head. Crackling, not unlike someone crunching wet eggshells between their hands… It was strangely painful in a fashion that was not physical, but familiar all the same.

And still, through the pain/not-pain slowly consuming him like weak acid, he felt the small storm of chakra below. Flashes, like lightning, when the stronger hit the weaker and the chakra flickered like a dying flame, fluttering like a wild bird trapped in a cage. But the stronger was still bright and sharp and _intent_ on the kill, until there were pulses in the storm and much stronger presences kept the two apart.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." Harry slurred through a numb mouth, the slightest of sounds because he remembered he _needed_ to be quiet, even if he could no longer recall _why_. The wet crackling feeling changed to a not-sound like dry static from an old television, and then a high-pitched whine that made him wince and drop his head against the pole.

He barely held focus long enough to cast a self-diagnostic spell, for all the good it did him. Be it too much active magic or something else entirely, the spell didn't read any difference since his last casting, since his awakening from something that was almost _death_…

A new pain ripped through his brain with all the viciousness of untamed Fiendfyre, and Harry almost bit through his lip to stifle a cry of agony; the feel of blood running down his chin grounded him when all he wanted to do was float away to escape. It hurt to even touch his head, but Harry pushed his hood off and pressed his palms to his temples anyway – the pressure helped.

"Lord Harry, a new hunter is approaching!" The near-scorching coils looped around his throat tightened, breaking the tenuous calm on his pain and making him spit out a stuttering, wordless hiss as something else crumbled in his head.

Licking at his torn lip, focusing on the pain he _knew_ the cause of, Harry woozily lifted his head and willed his eyes to clear and focus on the presence quickly coming towards the Hokage. Almost immediately he recognized the dark purple hair and tan coat identifying the snake-lady Anko. It took considerably longer –a few moments of eternity– to decipher the quick, intense expressions that flickered over her face. Annoyance, anger _(fear)_, shame, disgust _(betrayalhurtloss)_.

Harry saw her lips moving as she stopped between, and slightly behind, the Hokage and the scarred one, but realized quickly enough that she was deliberately keeping her voice low. It left Harry little option besides sneaking closer to eavesdrop, for he had the strongest feeling _against_ using the obscure little charm to increase his hearing…

The effort it took him to crawl the four feet that put him against the wall directly behind the group of three was torturous: Whatever instinct he'd suppressed since coming to Konoha was now _screaming_ that he hide away and be still, until this pain and weakness passed.

"I'd like to know where you found that boy, Hokage-sama." The woman was saying grimly when Harry tuned into her voice. "If there are others that will be using the same jutsu against us, we need to know everything. _None_ of us detected it." The old man just sighed in response, the wrinkles on his face deep.

"Describe it to me; what exactly did this justu do?" Harry found that he couldn't look directly at the Hokage, disturbed by the ferocity of the rage that boiled up when he looked at the man's dark eyes.

The next match was called before the woman spoke again –_"Sabaku no Gaara vs. Rock Lee."_– and Harry discovered it was considerably easier to watch her and the silent scarred man instead. "_Genjutsu_, Hokage-sama. Anyone and everyone who went to check on your ANBU and the little snake returned with reports giving the all clear." She paused deliberately, murky eyes flashing with some bitter emotion that Harry was too sick to make sense of. "As of ten minutes ago everyone could clearly recall _going_ to the room, remember giving their status report, but _no one_ actually has a memory of _seeing_ either of them in over nine hours. I doubt anyone would have even noticed, had the boy not been missing now."

"And what of Jackal?" The incongruous rage spiked again at the leader's grim tone, and Harry had to bury his face in his knees to keep control. _(Too close to Dumbledore, too familiar. Voldemort hated him _so much_.)_ His paranoia wouldn't let him hold the position longer than a couple seconds, so when Harry lifted his eyes again it was to stare at the blank face of the other shinobi.

"I had him taken back to Konoha Main when nothing we did could wake him." Snake-lady Anko's voice somehow sounded wrong, like it wasn't suited to be as flat as it was then. The scarred man's dark eyes narrowed slightly, as if to confirm Harry's thoughts. "His vitals were steady and strong, no sign of blood or trauma… Hokage-sama, nothing in your ANBU's brief said anything about abilities like that." It couldn't have been anything but accusation, but the drawn look of hidden panic made it seem more like personal betrayal and less like her questioning her leader's motives. Harry wondered if she would be reprimanded –_punished_– for her insolence.

With his attention wavering and the words floating through his head like a soft, warm wind, it was the scarred third that caught Harry's focus. Intimidating, stoic, dark… familiar. Nothing of the shinobi's thoughts were expressed on his face, though his eyes were so watchful, _intense_. The man reminded him so starkly of Snape that it almost hurt, but Harry was even more set on watching him because of it. Men like Snape were some of the most dangerous, not only for that rigid control but because when they _lost_ that control they were the most unpredictable people one could encounter. It was a beautiful, deadly thing to watch.

"There cannot be a report for that which is unknown, nor a forewarning for a threat that had never proven itself to _be_ one. Not without raising unreasonable prejudice." The leader sounded tired then, and the rage bubbling in Harry's chest spat one single, acidic word: _Liar_. "Accuse this old man of sentimentality, but Konoha is not Kiri, and Harry is not Orochimaru. You would do well to remember that." There was silence between the three following the reprimand, the sounds of the ongoing fight suddenly very loud; Harry couldn't help digging his nails into his arms at the jarring noises he couldn't place.

"Why aren't you more worried about this?" Anko's voice was definitely accusing, then, little more than an angry hiss; the still silent man frowned briefly, just the slightest bit. "That _boy_ took out your ANBU, did who-knows-what to him, and has disappeared completely from our sights. Now. With _Him_ around. This can't be coincidence!" Her voice had gained a breathless quality by the end, and the taste of her anger –_(and fear)_– was almost stronger than that of his blood.

Harry breathed out a silent, shuddering sigh, Fire Scales shifting around his neck reassuringly. _(No, _no_, it couldn't come to pass like this. If she would bear a grudge against him, her passion could be enough to spark a manhunt. A _true_ search. No. Please, _no_…)_

"Calm yourself, Mitarashi." Harry jumped and sluggishly refocused at the scarred man's growl. "Mind that we are not alone here." The sound of combat spiked again, and Harry couldn't decide if he was distressed or relieved that he couldn't see anything but the three ninja before him.

"I apologize, Hokage-sama." Snake-lady sighed, but Harry stopped listening to them as Pretty tucked its head next to his ear and started to whisper.

"That female can call on the stronger members of my kin, Lord Harry. A Pact. An alliance with this hunter could help, if you are to remain amongst these humans…" Harry didn't have much will to respond, so simply ducked his head enough to press his cut, bleeding lips to his companion's warm body.

Their voices washed over him, meaningless drivel that held nothing for him but whose meaning drilled deep into his head, imprinted because he _could not_ afford to ignore them. It was like being caught in limbo, like being tethered to Voldemort's throne again. Too muddled and hurt to listen but too paranoid and needy to completely ignore. When the quiet came –_(and it always did, leaving him to toil alone in his old thoughts)_– he would remember it all so clearly, but right then the only thing that mattered was they _couldn't_ see him and Harry was _waiting_.

_(Waiting for what?)_

"As soon as possible there will be a quiet search of this training ground, as much manpower that can feasibly be spared now. I do not believe he has gone far."

"But _this_ place? I saw him yesterday, Hokage-sama! He doesn't look like he could stand a stiff wind, let alone the beasts in there…" A pause. "The snakes, maybe." Another pause. "If it's all the same, Jackal must have been caught off-guard, but genjutsu doesn't work the same on animals…"

"…I can recall only one …_person_ who was comfortable wandering this Training Ground alone. Only one who ever riles you this much either, Mitarashi. That boy who you gave free reign of this Tower, is he..?"

A snort, bitter. Harry _knew_ it was snake-lady, though they all had their backs to him now, faces directed at the chakras he could feel on the floor.

"Like father, like son." The woman laughed a little hollowly. "Don't feel bad, Ibiki—I wouldn't have know what the little snake looks like either, if his babysitter would've acted a little more professional."

"What do they mean, Lord Harry? You were not born to their ilk. There cannot be another like you—there is only one Lord Snake." As his companion spoke it slipped more of its body under his shirt to better warm his clammy skin. Harry swallowed thickly, dizzy from the strange way his magic was roiling under his skin and sick with fear that it would disrupt the spells keeping him hidden. He barely had the ability to form a single confused thought: Since when could Pretty understand the human tongue?

"I would have preferred him to remain secret longer than this, but the needs of Konoha must always come first. Of course, there was always a chance this gambit could go terribly wrong, but I didn't expect to lose him like this." That _tone_. Harry's fingers clenched around each other tightly enough for the joints to pop. That _tone_, that benevolent, kind, yet still firm and cruelly deliberate _tone_…

"…You wanted to use him to draw out the spies. Have him seen and hope to lure Orochimaru in as well." The deep rumble sounded contemplative, slowly tasting the plan on his tongue but offering no opinion of his own.

"Where did you even get him? I could smell the hospital on him, so that's where you've kept him, for some time too… No, _how long_ has he been in the Village?" The woman's voice was dropping back into a faint hiss, and for an absurd moment Harry couldn't decide if it was in her effort to keep quiet or if it was something she'd picked up from the snakes she could apparently call upon.

Whatever the aged leader responded with was lost to Harry as a sudden, heavy stillness overtook the previously busy arena. Both of the combatants were still, still, _still_, and then one –_the weaker chakra, the faster body_– seemed to explode with chakra, a painful sear against his senses, and then was moving so quickly as to almost disappear completely. In response, the wild and malicious chakra boiling within the other genin soared to new heights –_barely hidden at all, how could they not _feel_ it?_– and Harry shook as it touched the trailing edges of his magic.

In one swift, thoughtless motion, Harry curled in more tightly on himself and sank his fangs deeply into his forearm. His vision went white in agony –_(He didn't remember it ever hurting so bad…)_– and Harry felt it in his jaw when he scraped against bone, but it drew him back from the distressing precipice of madness from the sensation of _too much_. So instead Harry focused on himself: The rusted, musty taste from the fabric of his robe pressing on his tongue, the way his fingers twitched from his fangs pressing a nerve, the bubbling of blood through his teeth as he panted in quiet agony.

An old habit, ingrained deeply into his subconscious, had Harry painstakingly unlocking his clamped jaw and pressing his lips to the deep wound, drawing more blood _(warmth)_ to the surface and trying to spread it along his arm. Slowly, _slowly_, as his companion hissed worried reproaches into his ear, pieces of the ninja's words filtered through.

"…-naka Inoichi, every day since the patrol found him. With the state he lives in, there is no way he could have hidden an agenda against Konoha… if he ever had one." The lethargy creeping over him didn't allow Harry more than an angry tremor at the old man's voice, but even still the strain of the reaction caused his magic to draw in close to his body. While before it had brought him disorientation, this time it brought only relief; with the part of him that always –_always_– stayed with his magic he felt it condensing into a tight point in his chest.

It was with the far too familiar mixed feeling of relief and fear that the edge on his senses dulled, and he could no longer feel the chakra around him so keenly. After so long of _feeling_ everything, it was like suddenly being struck blind… but if he couldn't _see_ the evil chakra _(the demon)_ maybe it couldn't get him…

"Hokage-sama, we need more. He attacked one of our shinobi and is now _missing_. Possibly conspiring with our most notorious missing-nin. This cannot remain secret for much longer." After the scarred one spoke there was a long moment of silence between the three, broken only by the crashes of shattering stone and the rasp of moving sand.

A sigh, then: "Not now, not here. When this is concluded you two will be briefed by Yamanaka Inoichi and the other ANBU assigned to the boy. With any luck we can keep this blunder under wraps for longer yet."

Slumped as low as he was, sight blocked by the shinobi looming before him, Harry did not see the conclusion of the match. He _heard _it; a grinding crunch and a bloodcurdling scream. He _felt_ it, even with his magic tucked away tightly inside. It was the barest tendril of that golden, gritty chakra that snuck out and brushed against him –_curious_– before it retreated to the confines of its human vessel.

His spells –weakened by the quiet disorder overtaking his mind and shaking his control– wavered and fell around him. Harry _knew_, the same way he had known the way to wandlessly manipulate his magic, that he couldn't hide himself again; his magic was too bound, too tight and too intent to conjure the delicate control necessary for that. He was exposed, but not yet discovered. _Yet_. The subconscious effects of the spell would linger, the murmur that said _'nothing is here, nothing interesting at all, I have always been here, just ignore me…'_ … But only so long as he managed to keep attention _away_ from himself.

The group was silent still, almost strained. Even with his mouth and tongue covered in his own blood, Harry could taste still more in the air, and astonishingly copious amount. (Had one of them died?)

"They're training them brutal in Suna, don't you think?" Anko's tone was dark, question rhetorical, and no one answered.

"Please, Lord Harry." Pretty rasped, arrow-shaped head tucked tight against his ear. "_Please_. You must leave, my Lord. You are _ill_ and need peace away from these hunters, these _humans_. _Please_, go and let the others in the forest take care of you…" It was…_pleading_. His companion was begging for him to leave…

Though Harry dared not speak –he was too close to the shinobi for speech to go unnoticed, and the hiss of Parseltongue would probably have them attacking before they even saw him– he slowly nodded his assent. Yes, the Forest, that sounded lovely, so peaceful… But he'd meant to stay here for some purpose, to see some plan through. What was it? Something he'd so desperately wanted to hear..?

Ah. He'd wanted to make sure they found Jackal, unconscious but unharmed. (And if all went well, they would never discover the alterations to the young ANBU's memories. Would not find the ones that Harry had buried within the deepest, longest forgotten childhood experiences of the ninja, because he didn't want to take the chance of damaging him with an Obliviate, which would have been so much _easier_. Would accept the things the ninja _would_ recall, the memories Harry created, as the truth.) But… he had wanted to say something as well. What was it?

What _was_ it?

Harry buried his mouth into his knees, trying his hardest to bite down on the noise of his terrible frustration. He couldn't… why couldn't he… he couldn't _think_, he only wanted to _think_! So confused, so _angry_, and _scared_ _(oh gods they were everywhere, what if he couldn't ever think right again, they could break him hurt him _kill him—_)_. A tremor started as he fought himself, a twitch under his eye that spread downwards, that pulled his lips into a snarl and had him shaking against the wall.

And then he snarled.

It was a quiet thing, barely louder than a sigh, but it was still too loud. The lingering obliviousness from his broken spells failed, and Harry raised his head defiantly even as his body pressed defensively into the wall, refusing to succumb to his fear as the three turned on him.

After the initial, shockingly fast movement, the shinobi turned into a study of stillness. Anko held a single kunai, arm half-poised, but the expression on her face was one of wary doubt, and the tip of her weapon had tilted almost immediately away from him. The old Hokage's face was oddly expressionless, masked; Harry tilted his head slightly, and managed to wipe the grimace of a snarl off his own face to match the leader's.

The scarred one bothered Harry the most. The intimidating man seemed _larger_ somehow, and his body held a peculiar kind of stillness that Harry was intimately familiar with… Poised, like a predator just _waiting_ to strike.

Harry moved slowly –thoughts even slower– to uncurl some and press a palm to his temple _(his blindfold was damp with sweat)_, just keen enough still to notice the attention it drew to his blood-soaked sleeve. "Are you going to attack me again?" He rasped, head tilted to direct his question at the woman, the only one who had _(visibly)_ drawn a weapon. An odd expression flickered over her face, too fast to read, and though the kunai was lowered further it stayed steady in her hand.

"Harry," The Hokage stated, voice low and level and so unsurprised it had to be _fake_. "You are supposed to be with Jackal-san right now. Do you understand that you are breaking the terms for your asylum in Konohagakure?"

Harry twitched as paranoia flared. Was that a trap? They already knew he'd done something to Jackal—why would they _ask_ that..? Ohh, he couldn't _think_…

"You already found him—you _know_." Harry accused sullenly, dropping his raised hand when the pressure against his temple felt like it was doing more harm than good. There was an inkling, even deeper in his head than the _cracklingbreakingfalling_, that told him he had to say something important… _What_? Harry's fingers twitched. "I think he will wake, soon enough." Three pairs of eyes narrowed at him.

"What did you do to my shinobi?" There was a growing harshness in the leader's voice, something that _Harry_ never heard directed at him from Dumbledore; the difference and brief clarity allowed him to look upon the man without that _rage_. "Why did you attack him?" He had begun to wonder just when the well-being of the Hokage's underlings would override the man's strange desire to shelter him. Now was that time, apparently.

Another spike of pain shot through his head, unexpected enough that Harry couldn't prevent the wince of pain, the harsh pull of his lips over his fangs as he grimaced. In a kind of daze he swiped his fingers over the fresh lifeblood from his cut lips, stared a long moment at the contrast between chalk-white and dark crimson –_(not black, still not black)_– before he lifted his head to face the ninja. He could only hear his voice dimly, couldn't feel his lips move at all, as if the words weren't really coming from _him_ anymore.

_(The wall crumbled further, leaving nothing but broken shards between two halves—two halves that could've once been the same but for one factor that turned them to the most hated _(most important most beloved)_ foes.)_

"He should not have been so close to me." Oh, that was it; he had wanted to give them an impression of _his_ part in the debacle he'd made for Jackal to remember. Harry smiled –_bared his fangs mockingly, knowingly_– and felt the blood color his mouth red, felt what had already dried crack and flake on his cheeks. "I told Birdy, so you have to know—my eyes are _dangerous_." True, so _true_, but that wasn't the point, was it? Such an easy excuse…

Harry saw them _(sawsawsaw but didn't _know_, couldn't _know_, couldn't _focus_)_ exchange looks that should have been subtle but were as loud as the screams from the broken ninja that'd just fought. The old leader spoke.

"Morino-san is going to take you back to your room." A statement, abrupt, one that was an order and would tolerate no argument. "You will stay there with him until Inoichi-san comes to see you."

It went against everything that Harry wanted, that Pretty insisted he needed. His companion was hissing at them, fangs bared and dripping venom, harsh words falling from a forked tongue—unseen and unheard by all but him. "You cannot order my Master anywhere you witless, useless primates! Get away! I will bite you, kill you, laugh as your cold, dead bodies are picked apart by the crows!" How the incorporeal serpent intended to bite them was beyond Harry, but the sentiment was pleasing…

Harry used the wall to stand, pushing with his hands and back when the weakness of his mind spread to his body as well. This had gone on long enough; he had done what was needed, and wanted to _rest_. "No. No hospital. Can't help me, can't…" He frowned and drew a breath as the rest of the Hokage's words registered, and when he spoke again his voice was little more than an angry hiss. "Not Inoichi—_his_ fault!"

The next match was called and Harry startled –turned– when one of little Yamanaka's teammates shouted something akin to a battle-cry. At the same time he just barely saw a flicker of movement as Anko shot forward.

In one swift movement one of her hands wrapped around his arm, her other palm on his shoulder to spin him around and slam him forcefully against the wall, pinned and fully restrained. Harry flinched and stiffened, mouth already pulled in to a vicious, angry snarl _(get off getoffget_off_!)_ as the Hokage exclaimed his underling's name, and then his magic lashed and hummed under his skin as the woman jerked back, involuntarily releasing him.

_(One of the most instinctive forms of accidental magic, rarely seen in anyone but scared _children_. A static surge that made touching the child feel as if they've grabbed hold of a live electrical current instead.)_

It was there, but a pittance of what he usually had access to, but Harry grasped it with needy hands, called forward all the magic he could reach with a twist of intent _focus_ and Disapparated.

_Behind him he left only the crack of displaced air and a few drops of dark blood on the floor… And a room full of either curious or alarmed shinobi._

_/-/-/-/-/_

**A/N:** Next chapter's an interlude, which means this is the last chapter of this Arc, which means everything's going to shift again ;3 Love to know what you thought about this chapter, please tell me~


	16. Interlude 2: Great and Terrible

**A/N:** Been a while. Those of you that check my profile are probably aware that the past months have been bad for me. I will label it 'Death in the Family', because even if she was _just_ a cat, I had known her for thirteen years, and that hurt. Especially because I was her caretaker for that terrible month of failing health and death. But I'm feeling a bit better now, so here's an interlude for you.

/-/-/-/-/

Interlude 2; Great and Terrible

Not even an entire day had passed, but already the majority of the Wizarding World knew. Such news had the tendency to travel quickly. The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, cut short by a Death Eater raid in which the Dark Lord Voldemort himself appeared. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One…captured.

And at the same time it came to light that Harry Potter single-handedly incapacitated over a dozen Death Eaters –_killed_ some of them– with all manner of _dark_ spells.

Suddenly there was renewed speculation –led by that _awful_ Skeeter woman– that Harry Potter was really in league with the Dark Lord, or that he intended to kill him and take his place. It only got worse when Hogwarts students were interviewed after the fact; everyone _suddenly_ remembered that Harry had only ever been seen in _classes_ the previous year. Not at meals or in the dorms. He had quit Quidditch, and _no one_ –friends, rivals or even Professors– knew where he disappeared to outside those classes, just that the wards said he was still in the school.

Those in Slytherin, smirking all the while, pointed out that Harry Potter _was_ a Parselmouth; who was to say that he hadn't spent the time down in the Chamber of Secrets? The Ravenclaw students as a whole stated that Harry had been withdrawn, tired and pale all of his sixth year: All that shared classes with him hadn't missed that although he turned in no homework he had an unusual mastery of practical magic, more prominent a skill than he had ever shown in the past.

A second year Hufflepuff came forward and testified that the Chosen One had almost cursed him at King's Cross when he had approached him for an autograph.

Those in Gryffindor who _hadn't_ been cowed by venomous glares from Ron and Ginny, those still irrationally bitter about the Quidditch debacle –and perhaps rightfully so about his dabbling in the Dark Arts– vilified Harry in every possible way.

Hermione Granger, seated within a sea of gossips, buried her face in her hands. She would not cry, she would not cry… She stood from her seat at the Gryffindor House table, fire burning in her eyes.

"Traitors!" She yelled, voice just shy of breaking, jarring the Great Hall into stunned silence. "You back-stabbers! He only did this so none of you would have to!" Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she stormed from the Hall, Ron Weasley trailing cautiously behind her, shooting bitter glares of his own at those who watched them go.

As conversations restarted, the Professors at the Head Table exchanged worried glances. All except for Severus Snape, whose black eyes were still fixed on the doors. He wondered if Granger knew how right she was, or if she simply couldn't acknowledge that …Harry… had it in him to become a Dark Lord.

/-/-/-/-/

Four long months had passed since Harry Potter was captured by the Dark Lord.

Yule was upon them, but there was no cheer in the dreary kitchen on Number 12 Grimmuald Place, where the Order of the Phoenix convened. Their leader, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore –blue eyes grim and tired behind his half-moon glasses– sat watching the door expectantly. His spy within Voldemort's ranks, Severus Snape, had been summoned the day before and had yet to return…

The muted despair was almost tangible in the dimly lit room; many of its occupants were pale and drawn with a damning mix of worry and exhaustion. A quiet, half-hearted argument went on between the Weasley matriarch and her youngest son, Ron. She didn't want him involved with Order business; he argued that he was of age. She snapped that he was still in school. He snarled that he would drop out like his brothers –also in attendance– and she fell abruptly silent, expression hurt and angry.

At least her youngest, her Ginny, her only daughter, wasn't involved yet.

Hermione Granger, seated solemnly beside a prematurely-aged Remus Lupin and across from the Weasley family, stated quietly that they had to be in attendance—had to know about Harry. It was their _right_.

Silence fell, somewhat awkward; most of the Order still resented their Chosen One for turning to Dark magic, but they dared not speak ill of him in the Granger girl's presence. Nowadays, she let her spells do the talking when anyone spoke poorly of her first friend. The eclectic repertoire she held was one to be feared, especially when one took into account that she co-headed the newly revived Defense Association alongside Ron. No one could deny she had a mean streak a mile wide; not after the first time a group of gleefully hurtful Slytherins interrupted the club and didn't get out of the Infirmary for a week.

The silence made it possible to hear the front door open and close, the quiet tap of hard-soled boots as someone came towards the kitchen. The door opened to reveal an unsurprisingly grim Severus Snape. Those more observant among the Order saw a slight tremor –quickly stilled– of the man's potion stained fingers.

"Severus," Dumbledore acknowledged quietly, gesturing for his spy to be seated. The offer was quickly accepted; it was obvious even to even the most oblivious that the Potion's Master was exhausted. "Do you have any news for us?" Everyone knew he was asking about Harry –he always did, just not as directly as he had in the beginning, in the first month– in the vain hope that Severus had discovered _something_…

"Potter is still alive." Snape sneered, though there was little real emotion –negative or otherwise– in the expression and his eyes were suspiciously blank. Those very few in the know would recognize it for what it was; Occlumency at work. "I was with—." He stopped abruptly and changed his words. "I saw him not two hours ago."

The uproar was immediate as people stood all around the long table, but Ron made himself heard with a shout that immediately silenced them all. "Why didn't you help him escape?! You were right _there_! You have that damned portkey!" The gangly ginger's face was red with anger, and the air itself gained weight as more of the Order picked up on that and their auras expressed it. Many accusing eyes turned towards Snape, distrustful even after so many assurances that he was loyal to Dumbledore.

"I couldn't!" The dark Professor snarled back, black eyes flashing dangerously, shocking many into silence at the admittance. "The Dark Lord has him under a mountain of wards, and access is granted only by _Him_ personally. I wasn't alone with Potter for even a minute." He ran a hand over his face harshly; the Order members as a whole dropped back abruptly at the unusual show of weakness from the man.

Hermione was the first to speak again, one of the few that'd remained silent and seated in the initial outburst. "He wanted you to give Harry a potion, didn't he? Is…is he torturing Harry, then?" Across from her, Ron wore an expression like he'd just been hit with a slug-vomiting hex, freckles showing starkly on his face as he paled.

Severus turned to Dumbledore, only for a moment, before looking straight ahead, eyes shielded and tightly focused on a spot on the wall. He spoke over those who murmured questions about the Cruciatus curse. "Your _Golden Boy_," He sneered mockingly, gaze briefly flicking to Dumbledore before refocusing on the wall. "Has been subject to no spells used for torture." The answer was more than slightly evasive, but no one was given time to question the dark man before he continued.

"I was called to brew an advanced healing potion, and administer a series of obscure potions that change the physiology of a body… to help their magic sustain them through the effects of prolonged fasting… or starvation." Before he'd even finished the last syllable, outraged shouts filled the room, until Dumbledore silenced them all with a _bang_ issued from his wand.

"What are you holding back, Severus?" Snape glared, and the Headmaster flinched back both from the intensity of it, and the fact that the Potion's Master was disturbed enough that his normally tightly-reigned aura was flaring briefly into the visible spectrum. The fact that the dark man's magic appeared as gray shadows shot through with poisonous strings of shifting opalescent colors alarmed him almost as much as the loss of strict control.

"No one needs to know such depravity, not until we get the boy from Him." His voice was cold and brittle, and the Professor ignored the heated cries of _"Tell us!"_ as easily as he would the students he taught. When Dumbledore continued to look at him with grandfatherly disapproval Snape's face morphed into an ugly snarl. "You want to know so dearly, you foolish old man? Look for yourself!"

The two locked eyes for a long moment; few recognized Legilimency for what it was, until Dumbledore looked away sharply, face drained of all color while Snape continued to glare bitterly.

_"Harry, my boy, I'm so _sorry_…"_

/-/-/-/-/

Professor Snape hadn't been teaching his classes for an entire week, and now they knew why. Being members of the Order, Ron and Hermione were privy to things most everyone else was oblivious to. They knew that earlier that day a silver doe Patronus had burst through the Headmaster's window and said in Snape's voice: "This is the first time I could get away—He's attacking the Ministry _tonight_. Malfoy will lower the wards at a quarter to seven. The Dark Lord will have Potter _with him_."

They stood now before the DA, in their usual meeting place –an unused classroom on the fourth floor– with only minutes separating them from a portkey to the Ministry, in which they would possibly die trying to save their best friend…

And maybe the Wizarding World as a whole.

So they told those trusted sixth and seventh years who still believed in them, in Harry, and let those of age accompany them. Enough had changed since Harry's capture –eight months past– that those under seventeen accepted without argument the need for them to stay at Hogwarts. They knew that if the Professors, Order, and of-age DA members lost this fight, that Hogwarts would be the Dark Lord's next target. That it would be up to them, as the last line of defense, to engage the pre-set wards and usher the younger students to safe havens and portkeys to other countries.

There wasn't a week, these days, that someone in the Great Hall wouldn't receive a Black Letter notifying some unlucky soul of a death in their family. Everyone wanted this war to end. The DA trusted and respected the judgment of their leaders, the two remaining parts of the "Golden Trio", for they had lost family as well. It was well know that Hermione's parents had been killed by Fiendfyre on Halloween night, and though Ginny Weasley's body hadn't been recovered when she'd gone missing just last month, she was presumed dead. The rumor went that her hand had fallen off the fabled Weasley family clock.

The veteran Order members looked upon the DA with disapproval when they met in the Entrance Hall, but by then knew better than to say anything. The students had all trained their bodies and magic hard in the last months, and what they lacked in true battle experience they made up for in creativity. In defiance of the individual strength that the Death Eaters so treasured, the DA trained in a new style; they fought in pairs –in teams–, as one unit. Together, they could take down an individual many times their own strength.

The portkeys were passed out and held, and as one all the fighters for the Order of the Phoenix were whisked though a vortex and dropped in the empty Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Ranks were ordered quietly amongst the veterans, while the DA settled into their best teams; nerves were banished to the deepest recesses of minds, and wands were held ready in all hands. If an inspiring speech had been planned it was forgotten immediately, for when the clock struck seven the Death Eaters appeared, lead by the Dark Lord Voldemort.

But no one moved, besides Professor McGonagall releasing a half-strangled gasp, for the sight beheld was so unexpected. They knew the Dark Lord would bring Harry, but like _that_..!

Hermione could barely recognize her friend, held in such a close and possessive way by his mortal enemy (and what happened to Voldemort killing Harry? What about the Prophecy?). His skin was the same dead tone as the creature that held him, and his face was sharp and hollow from starvation. He had nearly black circles around his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in years, and his eyes themselves had changed. No longer obscured by his glasses, they were the same unusual shade of green, but too bright –glassy– and the whites were so bloodshot they appeared solid crimson. Were…were his pupils _slits_?

Now that she was looking, should couldn't help thinking that he looked like a more human version of Voldemort. Hermione hated herself immediately for thinking so.

As they watched, Voldemort ran the fingers of his free hand –the one not wrapped threateningly around his wand– through Harry's limp hair, and their Savior and friend didn't even twitch at the disturbing action. Only after was there any movement: Harry's eyes, eerily blank, trailed slowly over the assembled Order, and stopped for a long moment on Albus Dumbledore. He blinked once and sighed; Hermione's heart lurched at the dead sound.

And then the Dark Lord smiled.

"Your 'Chosen One' doesn't even fight me, you know," He began genially, crimson eyes seeking out the Headmaster, and then the Hogwarts students—Ron and Hermione in particular. His Death Eaters were silent behind him, poised. "I'm sure, though, had he the ability to remember any of you, dear Harry would tell you to just step aside now. Save yourselves the agony of death." The slight hiss in his voice made his words seem even more ominous.

"There are fates worse than death, Tom." Said Dumbledore, tone firm, and he didn't seem able to remove his eyes from Harry's emaciated, still form.

Voldemort tilted his head, apparently unperturbed by the use of his old name. "Would you kill Harry then, Dumbledore? To spare him this terrible fate, to sit by my side as I destroy this useless Ministry, and then the muggle filth strewn across this world?" His voice was light and near friendly, though his eyes burned with hatred so intense that it made many of the Order shiver where they stood.

Without waiting for an answer the Dark Lord grasped Harry's chin lightly and turned his head, so that his empty green eyes could 'see' them all. "He's not yours anymore, _Dumbledore_. You are far too late to save him. Could you accept him with open arms, knowing that he didn't even _attempt_ to fight when I used his body to kill Ginerva Weasley?" Unnaturally long fingers trailed over Harry's expressionless face, evoking another uneasy shiver in the crowd of fighters. "Not so much as a thought to _stop_ when I used his hands to rip the intestines out of her struggling, _screaming_ body." Voldemort was _smiling_, a fixed snarl that showed too many sharp, yellow teeth.

A scream of rage, and the first spell flew –some nasty curse by the furious, heartbroken Weasley matriarch– followed quickly by a volley from the rest of the Order. The Death Eaters retaliated, and suddenly the Atrium was filled with multicolored lights and all manner of noise and chaos, ranks broken and rubble flying. A bubble of peace surrounded the Dark Lord, though; none attacked, for fear of either harming Harry or drawing the dark wizard's attention and ire.

The DA were working in their cells, complementary auras and new tactics throwing their opponents into disorder. Some chose to overwhelm the Death Eaters with a barrage of 3-to-1 spells, while still others moved straight into the chaos, one holding up a shield while their partners took advantage of the extra time to form more complex curses.

Lost in the flow of her spells –_Avis-Engorgio-Flagrante-OPPUGNO!_– with Ron at her back, Hermione startled violently when an unmasked Death Eater –(Professor Snape!)– flew into the wall next to her with a gruesome snap. She ran to his side without thought, knowing immediately that he was critically injured and of no further use in the battle, and dropped her activated portkey onto his chest. It would send him straight to Hogwarts' Hospital Wing, to safety.

Then the most horrible, heart stopping scream ripped through the noise, silencing everyone as both sides turned to its source.

And there was Harry, green eyes blazing as he held the Dark Lord's face between skeletal hands, and the pressure in the room suddenly seemed to increase, and Harry's eyes were bleeding—like he was crying blood. The creature that was Voldemort fell, body smoking and crumbling, and Harry swayed and fell beside it.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed, before all hell broke out. Curses flew chaotically, people disapparating or portkeying out, screams filling the room as some of the Death Eaters gave in and fell to the ground, clutching their left arms in agony. Through it all, Hermione caught sight of the disturbed, _furious_ Bellatrix LeStrange as she dragged Harry deeper into the bowels of the Ministry.

She hadn't been the only one to see; Hermione was one of a dozen fighting her way through the crowd of panicking bodies. Time seemed to play tricks on them, for though they managed to escape the Atrium in a bare minute a sudden alarm blared, a wail that announced the breech of the new wards surrounding the Department of Mysteries.

_'The Death Chamber. The Veil Room.'_

They heard the insane LeStrange laughing as they burst into the room, just in time to see her fling Harry into the translucent fabric of the Veil. At that moment Harry's eyes snapped open, swirling pits of crimson and bronze, and he flung out an arm.

"Avada Kedavra!" He snarled, voice brittle and cracked, and the sickly green spell shot from his fingertips(!) with the terrifying rush of wind and not-sound that haunted the nightmares of all that feared Death. LeStrange fell dead, demented cackle frozen on her face forever.

The last thing anyone saw of their Savior before the stone archway of the Veil collapsed was the clashing swirl of the color in his eyes. When all that stood of the artifact was a pile of rubble, and the great and terrible pressure of magic disappeared from their senses, the gathered magicians of the Order exchanged unsure looks.

_"Can… Can we bring him back?"_

_/-/-/-/-/_

**A/N:** So there's that. I didn't want to post this until I had the next chapter completely typed, so that you wouldn't be left with this tease of a chapter for an unknown number of months. Know what that means? Next chapter's almost ready! I just need to proof-read it. At the very latest, the first chapter of the new Arc will be posted Monday evening.

Until then, enjoy speculating at the doors this interlude could _possibly_ open for the future. And know that I'm back.


	17. Chapter 14: Creep

**A/N: **First, thank you for your condolences, everyone c: I'm doing better than I had been (which is why I'm actually writing again), but your sympathies mean a lot. **Secondly!** Some of you may have noticed that the first chapter has a new note at the top? Yeah? **I mean that!** Seriously, I had no clue before I started writing this that my angst-meter was so fucked. I can do _nothing_ about that. I don't go out of my way to make it angsty, or make it not, because I seriously have read _a lot worse_. So there's that. Although, I wonder why you suffered through this much of the story if you hated the angst so much... *shakes head in mild wonder*

/-/-/-/-/

Chapter 14; Creep

The loud _crack_ that announced his return to the Forest sounded oddly distorted to Harry's ears. The moment his feet touched the ground, he collapsed, boneless; he was drained, empty, the energy that allowed him to escape gone just as suddenly as it had come. His fear was gone as well, however. There was none of the paranoia that'd so long been rooted into his heart, completely vanished with the presences of the humans, the shinobi.

The instincts he had so carefully kept contained while around them –so he could at least _pretend_ to be normal, _human_– now broke free and spread out, coloring his thoughts dark and startlingly vivid. Those instincts, so strong and unhindered, gave him another kind of knowledge. Harry knew; any other time, shifting into his Basilisk form would've been the best solution, but not now. His stronger form would be just as helpless and immobile, the weakness just as disabling with the added risk of making himself a much larger target.

Harry sighed into the ground, feeling the thin, scraggly grass flutter against his cheek and nose at the passing of his breath. He _should_ have been scared, _terrified_ of his complete inability to move… But he wasn't. Only one tired thought passed through his mind; the probability that his scent –that of a highly venomous snake, despite his current shape– would drive away the other predators that dwelled here. He had no desire to be eaten by a tiger, regardless of how impressive its size…

Harry felt the warm body of his incorporeal companion move along his skin, coming to rest with its triangular head on the cheek not pressed to the ground. It spoke, but Harry's magic retreated like the tide –danger passed, escape assured–, taking the last of his cognizance with it. Soft hisses became nothing more than static noise, and the dark shadow emerging from the trees sparked no alarm in his dulling sight.

Like brittle glass, the last of something fragile within him broke; a wash of gray fell over Harry, body and mind.

An all-encompassing sensation overtook him: Harry was weightless, floating in the eye of a missive storm, hot and cold winds deadlocked as they swirled around him. It was controlled chaos—a war without end as the opposites clashed, shearing off pieces of the other. Hot turned cold and cold turned hot, trapped in an endless cycle with no middle ground… Except… The _eye_. Upon Harry's realization that there already _existed_ a middle ground –for the eye of the storm was in fact _calm_ and _temperate_– the violent winds immediately calmed from their extremes. Though the storm remained intense, the temperatures lost much of their warring intensity; but for the occasional gust of blistering heat of freezing chill, the winds became uniformly warm.

Harry remained in the eye, bemused but more relaxed than he could ever remember. _This_ was peace. _This_ was what it was like to exist without worry, or pain, or fear. It was bliss. Nirvana. The condition he had strived for when he sought escape from the terrible reality he was forced to experience… But where _was_ he? What _was_ this place? It wasn't his mind—there was only pain to be found there… Nor could it be a dream conjured by his body…his body, lying somewhere in a dark forest…given that he was still alive, and this wasn't _death_..!

He fell out of the storm, then; the peaceful sensation receded as suddenly as it had come on, and Harry knew he was once more tethered tightly to his body. Confusion emerged, weak from exhaustion. Where was he now? Absolute darkness existed behind his closed eyelids, the air pulled into his lungs tepid and humid and rancid. The awareness granted him –despite, or maybe _because of_ his exhausted weakness– made Harry know that his surroundings were strange; small, closely enclosing him with walls that were slick with warm, slimy moisture.

The walls _moved_.

A distant sound, a tangible sensation, pulsed against him through the walls.

_Tha-thum, tha-thum, tha-thum…_

Harry drifted off in the darkness, a strange sort of peace falling over him as he realized that he felt _safe_. Unlike the storm, but still safe…and so tired. Like he had been very sick, a strong fever that had finally broken. He slept.

…

Harry _understood_.

Calling what had happened a 'fever' wasn't exactly _wrong_, for all that it wasn't really correct. It was his magic –was _always_ his magic– that had caused his weakness, sapped him of his strength and mental fortitude. All so that he wouldn't fight, so that he would be relaxed during the most vital times, wouldn't undo the process that had been ongoing for _months_.

It all came back to his magic. The nature of his magic had changed –_been _changed–, first by himself and then later by Voldemort. For the longest time it had been changing Harry in turn: It adapted his body and mind to function on nearly no sleep, more effectively than should have been possible. It started to absorb Voldemort's horcrux –_(horcrux! Soul shard, soul anchor! Voldemort's immortality…he finally knew!)_– to prevent the takeover and destruction of Harry's own soul, to which it was bound. It took his fortitude and desire to _survive_; Harry's magic, near sentient but still _his_, had melded itself to Voldemort's stolen power to make something _different_ than what had ever existed…

And that power, that changed magic, had turned back and made sure that Harry would continue to survive. Two souls were not meant to dwell in one body—it was incompatible for life. But Harry and Voldemort had become _similar enough_ over time, and the primordial magic, no longer separated as the souls were, could feel that. And so they had been fused; slowly, painfully, _imperfectly_, in an attempt to remedy the incompatibility of their divided states.

Tempering Harry's traumas and Voldemort's madness, but also joining their ways of reasoning, their morals, their _personalities_…

It was as fascinating as it was horrifying.

Harry's curiosity wouldn't allow him to dwell long on the horror, however; all he wanted then was to use that spell, so that he could look upon his magic and soul _now_. It was… Soul Gazing magic…learned during his –ah, _Voldemort's_– first reign; it was spoken in the language of the Dementors, for their own use. It had been the boon he'd demanded in return for allowing the dark creatures to freely feed on the muggles of Great Britain, whilst under his allegiance.

Had he the energy for the action, a wide, victorious smile would have nearly split Harry's face. He _knew_.

But Harry was exhausted still, and his thoughts continued to fade away at the end, and he felt so _safe_.

…

Harry woke, a scream trapped in his throat. Voices; faint, barely heard, but he still knew them to be many, all talking at once. A faint touch of warm air danced across his face, briefly distracting him from the voices and back to the sensation of clinging wetness, and the low, continuous noise.

_Tha-thum, tha-thum, tha-thum…_

Preternatural yellow eyes cut through the absolute darkness, and Harry discovered he could open his eyes again, could _see_. It took more than a few minutes of blank staring, however, to understand _what_ he saw. Smooth ridges –fleshy, organic– moved mere inches from his nose, pale and slick with viscous strings of moisture. The moisture moved with the deep, rhythmic pulls of warm air. Breathing? …_Saliva_?

A…mouth? He was in a _mouth_? When..? How!

On his back, arms tucked in close to his sides, Harry spread his hands out, fingers trailing gently over what he knew to be teeth. Fangs. Very sharp fangs. He wondered at first why the feeling of safety, of absolute security, hadn't faded away to fear… Until his searching, curious eyes located two long fangs tucked up against the roof of the mouth. And it somehow made sense that he should feel safe, there, held in the mouth of what must've been a _huge_ serpent.

Slowly, tentatively, Harry cast out his magic—he sighed, immensely relieved that he had the ability to do so, and then again when he felt no signs of shinobi around him. Only the diffuse pulse of faint chakra, something he had learned existed in all living things. But…no shinobi, and the chakra he was used to feeling in the civilians –untrained humans– was absent as well… Which meant that the voices he'd awoken to, that he could still _very faintly _hear, must be the voices of snakes.

That fact brought up more questions than answers, though, since snakes very rarely gathered in large numbers. Barring hibernation –and mating, in certain species– it was absolutely _rare_ to have any number of snakes gather, owing to the fact that cannibalism was quite common… Harry sighed again and pushed it out of mind; he had more dire thoughts to dwell on, and would rather take advantage of the pervasive feeling of _safety_ to do so.

Harry needed to think about what his magic had done. He _knew_ what it had done, what had happened –his magic was closer to him than ever before, he and it may as well have been the _same_–, knew what had been happening since he was thrown through the Veil, and just finally had come to its completion. It was hard to wrap his head around.

Harry felt like a whole person. It was a strange, but most satisfying sensation—a kind of content he had never experienced. For longer than Harry could remember, it had always felt like he was missing something important, like there was a hole in his heart. He wondered if it was that missing part that caused the pain in his chest that had haunted Harry his entire life, sometimes prominent and sometimes faint, but always there… Now, the newer, more experienced part that he _had_ to call 'himself' said that the pain was similar to when one made a horcurx… The killing curse may very well have sheared away some of his _soul_. His mother's protection hadn't been perfect, after all; he'd felt Death every day since the spell failed to kill him.

Harry swallowed hard at the last thought, but shook himself and refocused on the matter of his 'wholeness'. Most of his fascination stemmed from Voldemort's experiences, and his horcruxes; _he_ hadn't been whole for so long, either, having begun his path to immortality at only seventeen years old… _(Ah, that made so much more sense.. .The Diary had actually been a part of the Dark Lord's _soul_, not some powerful artifact…__)_

The most relieving thing to come from all this, however, was the fact that Harry no longer felt like _two_ people. Feeling the constant contradiction, the constant _war_, had been worse than feeling like _less_ than a whole being. It was just easier –even for a Dark Lord– to feel broken and incomplete than it was to feel like _too much_ of a person. Having another voice in your head, constantly talking, constantly pushing you to think things you didn't want to think. Neither of them had ever been a shining beacon of mental health, but having conversations, _arguments_, with a voice that existed only in their head… Talking to it _aloud_ when it became too insistent to keep inside… It was too much, even _knowing_ that it belonged to a separate soul. That it _really was_ someone else talking…

Harry would have cocked his head to the side if he hadn't been effectively paralyzed from his lingering weakness. Technically, he supposed, he was _more_ that a whole person now, even while he was no longer two. Harry knew from the memories still emerging that the Dark Lord had tied his lifeforce tightly to Harry's own, slowly initiating Harry into his immortality. And now he knew –from Voldemort's last moments as a singular being– that the spell Harry used to rip out his magic had also ripped out his soul, dragging the shards from the remaining horcruxes as well…

…_remaining _horcruxes. Harry felt momentarily dizzy as he recalled the Dark Lord weaving those three strings of soul into Harry's, and the one that'd already been irreversibly fused in. Him, an accidental horcrux. Slytherin's locket. The Gaunt ring. Hufflepuff's cup. And with the theft of the Dark Lord's magic –which he had gone farther than anyone before to tie to his soul, to live forever– Harry also drew the two remaining horcruxes. From Nagini, safely ensconced in Malfoy Manor; from Ravenclaw's diadem, in the Room of Hidden Things—the _Room of Requirement_ at _Hogwarts_.

So really, Harry was _more_ than whole. Two souls, both _nearly_ intact, joined.

He closed his eyes and grimaced. Harry didn't like that. Voldemort didn't like that. They were both the same, now, but neither liked the loss of his (their?) sense of _self_. They were still different—they _had_ to be. How were they different?

_I am myself._

Memories. Memories were easy to tell apart. Memories from Voldemort felt less real, being only imprints on the soul and magic, not experienced, not etched into his brain. Besides that, their behavior towards the people they'd interacted with over the course of their lives was always enough to tell them apart.

Knowledge…in that, they weren't different enough. Everything came easily; there was no struggle to recall—spells, conversations, legends… It was only when he thought about _where_ or _how_ he'd learned something that he would discover who had been the originator…and sometimes that still failed. Voldemort had learned so much in his insatiable quest to know everything about magic—why bother to remember _where_ or _how_ he'd learned a spell, so long as he knew it? And Harry had learned so much, so fast, and the Room had taught him so many eclectic things. The line blurred to nonexistence, there.

_I am not the sum of my parts._

It…surprised Harry to discover that when he wasn't incorrigibly insane from soul-damage, that their personalities weren't as dissimilar as he would've liked to believe. But they _were_ different, markedly so. Though both terribly possessive of what they considered _theirs'_, they showed it in drastically different ways: Voldemort would hide it away for no one to see, while Harry would proudly display his claim. Voldemort hoarded knowledge and power with the intent to lord it over others, to establish himself as superior and unchallengeable. Harry wanted to be strong only because of the freedom power gave him, and because he loved his magic, first and foremost; though he enjoyed testing his strength, Harry never wanted to _rule_.

But… Those extremes continued to clash within him, upsetting the balance that was establishing itself. He didn't _want_ to change.

_I am __**Harry**__._

Harry wondered what would happen if he could return to the Wizarding World, then. As himself, he had never cared for the government; corrupt and generally useless… And Voldemort had wanted to tear that useless farce of a ruling body to the ground…_after_ his rule was established and he no longer _needed_ such an easily manipulated government, anyway.

But the Wizarding World wasn't important anymore; Harry couldn't allow himself to hold onto the idea that he could return. Because he knew he _shouldn't_—no one would want him, be they the Order of the Death Eaters. Only he and his magic were of importance, and what he could do with his abilities in a world that knew nothing of magic, and nothing of him.

A small smile curled thin lips. Yesss… What could he do, when there was no Ministry to try and regulate his actions, no other magic users to counter his spells?

Had it been Voldemort who was the more dominant presence from their joining, a takeover would have been in order; from what he had learned, shinobi could make strong, competent servants. But Voldemort wasn't –if only because he had been _more_ broken, and Harry had more experience in keeping that soul in check– and Harry had no desire to rule, to become an infamous figurehead…

_My __**name**__ is Harry._

But Harry liked being strong, having power that few could ever hope to match, and had discovered that he _enjoyed_ learning new applications of magic. And now, with even _stronger_ magic, and new access to knowledge of the most _interesting_ magics in the world… It was just a matter of re-learning the spells, manipulating them to be cast wandlessly. He had all the time in the world, after all.

Ohh, no he didn't, no he _didn't_. He'd almost forgotten in this new chaos… The Konoha shinobi would be searching for him now; he had escaped their watch, and now they would be hunting him. If he didn't want them attacking him on sight –_there was no way he could avoid them forever_– he would have to go back, and _before_ they got too worked up, thinking that he was working with their traitor or some other nonsense. The fewer enemies he had, the easier his life would be.

…But then again, he would _love_ an excuse to break Inoichi, and of course they would sent someone who _knew_ him to hunt him…

Nonono, mustn't think that! (There were plenty of ways to do it, too. Could _Imperio_ the man and make him do _unspeakable_ things. Could transfigure him into a snake and have him _respect_ and _obey_ like the others were wont to do. Could cast so many spells to simply _torture_ him; melt bones, rip intestines, burn flesh… The medic-nin would be hard-pressed to save him!) He couldn't think it, couldn't let himself think that doing that would solve anything, would give him anything but instant gratification. It would be so _easy_, though…

Harry grimaced, forcefully turning his thoughts away from Konoha, its shinobi, or any human at all. He thought that most other people didn't have that problem—he hadn't always, either. Harry was able to keep it out of what he said, most of the time, but to restrain his thoughts was infinitely more difficult. To stop the thoughts of ripping, tearing, _hurting_; of the anger, of wanting to make others just _scream_. Harry didn't _like_ it, how easy it was to think these things and just not care.

Worst of all, Harry didn't think that Voldemort's soul –his motivations or desires– had anything to do with those bad thoughts. The Dark Lord only used pain as a tool, and his satisfaction came not from _hurting_, but primarily from the awareness that his plans were progressing from it. (Until his fourth horcrux, at least, when his soul started to unravel and he was stricken insane, and then wanted to inflict pain like the pain he felt…).

Inoichi must've been right, then; it must've been the insanity speaking. Harry giggled, and slipped into silence once more.

…

Twenty-nine thousand beats of his heart, long since slowed and synchronized to match the giant serpent whose mouth he sheltered in, and Harry stopped counting. His mind had finally cleared of the last lingering dullness caused by his magic's forced sedation.

Clarity of thought allowed Harry to look back at the muddled events that caused him to flee from the Tower. While he cursed the circumstances of his flight –he had spoken little sense at the end, and the simple fact that he had been there and _hidden_ would make them much more suspicious of him– Harry was even more intrigued by the words of the Hokage. More specifically, the _lies_ he spoke to his underlings. Because that was what they were—pretty little lies, absolutely worthless.

…There had to be a reason that the aged leader hadn't put a word of his powers –however little they concretely knew– into the reports those at the Tower received. The question was; why? Did he not _trust_ his underlings with the truth? That he was attempting to gain Harry's trust, gain he and his powers for the benefit of Konohagakure? Or was it something else… What the dark shinobi had warned the snake-lady of. Did the Hokage fear the wrong information getting to the wrong ears? Those flowery words about prejudice and compassion just that? Useless words for the ears of those not meant to hear the truth?

Harry didn't know. He could only hope that his luck held out, and the Hokage decided that discretion was the better choice; he had no desire to become an enemy of Konoha, but death would be hard to avoid if he was to be hunted… And Harry had no intention of being the one dying, either.

By all rights, he _should_ let them know that he was in their Forest, that he _needed_ to be there, away from people. But…if he appeared and _told_ them, they would either force him back to their hospital, or perhaps even a _cell_ –which he _would not allow_– …or try to kill him, depending on the Hokage's decision. Either way, that was unacceptable. Harry needed _time_, and most importantly, space. Without both, there would be no way for him to master, or at least control, the fatal power of his eyes.

If only he knew how to write in their language, then maybe he could just leave them a note… Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was just over-thinking things again. Wouldn't it be better if they didn't know he was in their Forest at all? Let them think that he had completely gone, and maybe he could come back to their village in the distant future…

Harry shifted uncomfortably in the damp, close quarters of the serpent's mouth. Then he stopped, frowning, and shifted again. And then froze, a strange expression crossing his face as he realized that something felt…_off_. Without warning the large, forked tongue he was lying on moved, and Harry barely bit down on the startled yelp that tried to escape, eyes widening hugely as he realized the cause of the strange sensation.

Before he had the opportunity to make sense of it, a crack of light appeared above his head, allowing fresh air to waft over his face. Harry became acutely aware, then, of the overpowering smell that surrounded him; venom and old, rancid death. It wasn't nearly as offensive as it would have once been, the scent _familiar_ now, and conversely linked with the feelings of peace and safety. Squinting and tilting his head back, Harry caught a brief glimpse of dark green before his sight was overtaken by the vibrant red-orange form of his companion as it slipped into the massive serpent's mouth.

"Are you awake yet, my Lord?" The phantom whispered gently as it reached him, strangely warm body slithering onto bare skin without hesitation. "The Behemoth indicated that she thought she felt you stirring…" Its voice trailed off at the end, as if his companion wasn't expecting an answer. Harry shifted again, shivering as yet more cool air invaded the tepid space, touching far more skin than it should've been able to.

"I am awake," Harry rasped, voice mild as one hand twitched and slowly crept towards the phantom on his chest. "Tell me though, Pretty; where have my clothes gone?" Before he'd finished speaking his fingers were wrapped firmly around the sinuous form, pulling it closer to his face. The only reason he hadn't already disapparated in panic was the distinct lack of human presences around, though he still felt terribly out of sorts.

"Ah. Ehm…yes, that." The serpent twisted upon itself, apparently in embarrassment. It was then that Harry realized that something fundamental had changed within his companion as a result of tying its spirit to him: He couldn't remember it being nearly as expressive, before. "The, ah, the hunters were trying to track you. To lead them away from you and the Behemoth, we tore apart your false skins and scattered them across the forest. The old piece held your scent very well."

Harry was silent as he contemplated the phantom's words, though he twitched again as it slid out of his loosening grip and cuddled against his chest. His head fell back against the large tongue, and he stared blankly at the fangs above him as his thoughts slipped from his mouth in no particular order. "So, the other snakes can see you –I can still hear them out there…– while the humans apparently cannot… I need to test that. Can the tigers see you? The insects? Birds? Clever of you to lead the hunters away with false trails, though I hate to think what conclusions they would come to if they _saw_ the trails being set. I'm glad that you kept me away from them, though… Even if you _could_ have left me with something to wear." Harry rolled his eyes up to peer out the barely-open mouth, face blank. "I needed those, you pervert." His companion slithered half onto his face, peering into one of his eyes and radiating an inappropriate amount of glee.

"I am glad you are cognizant again, my Lord." The phantom hadn't sounded as gleeful as it did, now, even when he'd discovered it still dwelling in his head: The end of its tail was still curled around the hand resting on his chest, tightening occasionally as if to remind Harry that it was still there. Harry smiled slightly, despite the annoyance he felt over the loss of his clothes. "And I am not a pervert; the skins you wore under your outer one barely held your scent at all, but the forest is very large and we needed it all… Also, there is a Greater Snake here, and he would not trust his tongue with your identity until he saw your scales as proof."

A confused frown creased Harry's brows: Pretty said '_Greater Snake_' like it was a title, like whenever it had called him '_Lord Snake_'. And what did it mean about his '_identity_'? Harry blinked and ran his fingers down his companion's nearly-intangible body, almost grateful to have something to distract him from the destruction of his clothes, his robe. _(The last material possession he had from his own world…)_. He had the most particular feeling that it would be useless to ask his companion to elaborate further—that same _feeling_ that made every snake he came upon address him as 'Lord'. It was something his Fire Scales was not unwilling, but instead _unable_ to clarify for him.

Harry licked his lips, grimacing for forgetting where he was and again at the foul tasted of the 'Behemoth's' thick saliva. "Will this… _Greater_ serpent try to make any trouble?" Something within him rankled at voicing the thought, for thinking it at all, though the reason why continued to elude him. It was even stronger than what Voldemort felt when faced with the prospect of disobedience from his followers.

The very idea of a snake acting out against Harry was…_unacceptable_.

Pretty shifted, an action reminiscent of a shrug. "He has been quiet since he saw you, and has not left the Behemoth's side since she decided to hold you." Disdain entered the whispering voice. "He was the only one to refuse to assist with the scent trails; said, it was _below_ him." That, more than anything, seemed to anger Pretty: Harry reflected that the level of loyalty displayed in his companion would have been borderline horrifying in a human.

Harry hummed acknowledgement. "I should talk to him before he causes any trouble—he sounds like someone I knew, once." He paused and blinked before sweeping the thought away carelessly. "Hm. Would you ask the Behemoth to let me out?" The request wasn't exactly _that_, but Harry was too fond of the phantom to word a command when one wasn't necessary.

"Yes, Lord Harry." It responded, already moving off his neck and passed his head, to the small gap the massive serpent's parted jaws created. Harry tilted his head back again, breathing in a tantalizing wisp of fresh air, but refocused as Fire Scales paused and spoke again. "I made sure they left you your eye-cover. I remember that you hadn't wanted anyone to see your eyes… They are very beautiful, my Lord; I wish you wouldn't hide them." It slithered out without giving Harry time to respond.

Without his notice, a small smile pulled the corner of Harry's lips as he felt around his throat and pulled the damp material of his blindfold up over his eyes. It felt…good. Not to cover his eyes again, but that he _had_ his blindfold. Even if it _had_ been the shroud of his torture, that piece of his robe was still a piece of home. Harry didn't know why it was so important –neither of them had ever been particularly _fond_ of the world they'd lived in– but the cloth made him feel…connected to something.

A moment later –_the faint sound of his companion's voice_– the great mouth opened, top jaw going nearly vertical, and Harry found himself looking up into the familiar canopies of dark trees. He sat up slowly, careful of the unsteady surface on which he rested, and carefully maneuvered himself over the sharp teeth and onto solid ground. It was soft and cool under his bare knees, only a few patches of hardy grass that could survive on the small amount of sunlight that could reach the forest floor.

Even before he looked around, Harry could feel multitudes of eyes on him, and though he knew them to be _snakes_ the attention was very nearly uncomfortable all the same. A subtle, complex motion of his hand –a necessary focus for a spell that only Voldemort had had need to use– formed a shroud or mist and shadow around him, an almost opaque robe that obscured him body passably enough.

Fire Scales came close and gave a wordless hiss, prompting Harry to lift the intangible serpent to his shoulders and finally glance around, finally behold the most unusual sight around him. The Behemoth was aptly named, an immense snake well over a hundred feet in length, her body curled in a loose semi-circle and completely encompassing the rest of the gathering. More than two dozen other serpents coiled within the loose boundary, benevolently still; the largest of them was about thirty feet, though the majority were less than five, and Harry knew these were but a few of his denizens within the Forest. They were all dark in color, scales mottled brown and green and gray—perfect for ambushing even the most wary.

All were focused on him, unblinking eyes attentive.

"My companion tells me that all of you took part in the ruse against the human hunters, and have thus protected me in my time of weakness…" Harry spoke in a soft, carrying voice, covered eyes trailing over the assemblage, looking for the 'Greater' one. He remained kneeling, sitting almost-comfortably on his feet and leaning against the smooth scales of the Behemoth's head, scales he could feel starkly through the illusion clothing him. "I must thank you all for your actions. I fear, that had none of you assisted me so, that the hunters would have taken me again." He smiled at them, showing impressive fangs in an expression that would make any human dearly uncomfortable.

"Lord Snake?" A small, grayish serpent separated from the group to come before him, body strangely flat and the scent of her venom peculiar; a bird-eater, a rare snake that could launch itself from high branches and _glide_. "The word of your arrival here was spread almost two moon cycles past, yet we only find you four suns back—your Guardian says you'd been with the _humans_." The tone turned slightly accusing, wary suspicion permeating her scent. "Why are you only here now?"

(Four suns, four days. He'd lost yet more time to the mess in his head…but at least his magic was _done_.)

Harry frowned at the bird-eater, but when he reached for the outspoken snake it was only to trail a pale, sharp-nailed finger along its narrow head. It arched into his touch, catlike. "It is quite simple. I had been in very poor health, and with human care I could recover more quickly than I was able to here." He looked up, taking in the natural scenery, the unstressed quiet. "It was worth the time, though I found their company to be…tiresome." The food as well—Harry was very much looking forward to eating something warm and bloody, again.

"The humans –_hunters_– took care of you, willingly?" Another snake spoke, the same species as the mottled-brown Behemoth but much smaller, younger; he remained where he was, as there was yet another smaller snake draped across his head. "Could they not tell that you were not one of theirs'?"

Harry took a long moment to consider the question before he answered—it seemed too important for meaningless assurances. He _wasn't_ human, after all, not if those legends were real: He was a creature halfway between human and Basilisk, and _that_ was only physically. But spiritually… What did his soul make him? His magic? But his snakes didn't need to hear that; they asked what the shinobi thought, and Harry knew _all about_ that.

"They did," Harry said slowly, mulling over what he knew. "They took good care of me, and would still if I hadn't escaped them as I had. The humans do think that I could be one of their kin, despite my differences. The way I understand them, it is not so uncommon to see certain traits like mine in some of their hunters. They rationalized my differences as something they believed could be borne from their own…" He paused, and then bared his fangs in another smile, newly amused. "There were some who thought I was of demon blood, but they don't _want_ to believe that."

Amongst the hissed laughter that followed the end of his statement, Harry leaned more fully against the Behemoth's great head. When she made no complaint –only a popping hiss of amused fondness–, Harry settled in comfortably, drawing his knees up to his chest to preserve what little body heat he had, now bereft of real clothing to aid him in keeping properly warm. It was something he would have to remedy soon, but it could afford to wait just a little while in the pleasant calm. The whole time he'd spoken, none of his audience had struck him as the so-called 'Greater Snake'; his companion had remained watchful but quiescent around his shoulders. A shame. Harry had almost been looking forward to what the 'Greater' on had to say, but apparently it had lost interest in him…

Almost thought too soon.

"Be _quiet_, you dim fools." A new voice broke easily thought the quiet, budding hisses of stilted conversation—as a rule, snakes on their own were not the most social, nor gifted conversationalists. "All of you, every _one_ of you low worms, taken in by some human youngling with a few dregs of demon in his blood. Have you no shame?"

The Behemoth hissed angrily and jerked her head suddenly; Harry almost toppled over as she moved, but righted himself and turned to see the presence he could _sense_ unmasking itself. It felt so very _unlike_ the chakra he was by now almost used to feeling in human shinobi, but still so _blatantly_ unmistakable. Such strong chakra…

"And _you_. A mere racer from Grass—as if one of your lowly ilk would be the Guardian of Ouroboros. Yet still, you should have more _pride_ than to allow yourself to be tied so intimately to a human, a _pathetic_ little human. Are your senses so weak that you cannot tell? That little runt of a youngling barely has enough chakra to sustain his own life, let alone _Summon_."

Harry was rapidly becoming less impressed with the newcomer, slicking back slimy-wet hair to clear his vision and better observe the serpent as he slithered over the Behemoth's massive form—where he had been hidden, the presence of his chakra artfully masked. He was large –an even length to Harry's Basilisk form, before his age and size reduced with his 'rebirth'– and impressively muscular even for a constrictor –which he obviously was _not_–, his coloring mainly a mix of dark grays and blacks. What erased any idea that the snake could be less mundane than his chakra were the frequent jagged slashes of vivid purple along his body, and large, nearly _glowing_ acid green eyes.

The great head –_horned protrusions arching back from the crests above his eyes; an intimidating visage_– came in close to Harry, heedless of the Behemoth's warning, warding hisses; a forked black tongue flicked out languidly, tasting the air not an inch from Harry's face. Harry felt the first stirrings of a dark, dangerous anger breaking his calm. It wasn't for this powerful serpent's words against himself –not as such; he knew his body was weak, his power different from theirs', even if he didn't appreciate being _called_ weak. Or _human_.–, but the implication that Fire Scales _wasn't good enough_..!

There was no doubt in Harry's mind that this was the _Greater Snake_, nor any that the title was indeed fitting. It was obvious. Even if he were to completely disregard the staggering amount of chakra, it was in the way the other spoke. His choice of words: That he said 'chakra' instead of 'power', and the fact that his speech wasn't punctuated with the wordless hisses of expression that every _other_ snake used. There was something about this serpent that was _more_, and Harry was willing to bet that it had something to do with that chakra…

But that wouldn't mean a damned thing if he kept belittling _Harry's_ Fire Scales.

"I would ask you to quit mocking my companion. They courageously gave their life to preserve mine…" Harry's voice once more emerged deceptively mild, but quickly turned sharp; like a blade hidden beneath the softest silk. "I would _ask_, except I am _telling you_. Do _not_ mock my companion." Fire Scales was _his_, and nothing or no one would condemn the little serpent for its bravery. Neither would they for Harry's grief-stricken act to consume the serpent's body, and somehow bind its spirit to him in the process.

The crested head jerked back, green eyes calculative in a way that was very strange to see in a snake…but not in a human. Harry was only distantly aware of the warm body of his companion slithering down his arm, and then silently to the ground; only vaguely aware of it saying "Away, away, _hurry_!" to the rest of the gathered snakes as he stared down the serpent looming over him. Without fear, but slowly growing aggression as it wouldn't defer. The dark and purple head cocked to one side; had it the physical capability, the other would surely be sneering at him.

"Yet more proof that you cannot be the Lord, little human." He drawled slowly, head rising yet higher from the ground and swaying side to side, cobra-like. "Would our Lord allow himself to become so weak as to necessitate another to preserve his life? No." The thick tail thumped the ground for emphasis, and his raised head turned slightly to aim his words at the retreating others—a carpet of serpents clearing away from the powerful duo, lead by Harry's Pretty. "If you are the Ouroboros, you should be nigh-invincible, shouldn't you?"

Harry cocked his head to the side, blindfolded eyes watching the swaying _Greater_ keenly as his mind rushed towards the implicated challenge gleefully. Somehow, the parallels fell almost too perfectly: Like within the Slytherin hierarchy –the _Snake House_ of Hogwarts– when a powerful newcomer came along and they had to prove themselves worthy of respect. Whatever weight their family name held meant next to nothing if the challenger wanted to prove themselves fitting for the top position… Not until they bested the _current_ House leader.

The cloak of mist and shadow flickered around Harry as his magic stirred with anticipation, briefly revealing the frailty of his body, his supposed _weakness_. But the fact that he was standing at all proved that he was strong; that he could _hide_ proved he was stronger. Harry had _endured_, and though physically he was feeble, _magically_ he was more than capable. He could _win_. Harry was _worthy_ of the respect the snakes seemed to instinctually hold for him.

And now… Now, Harry wanted to _play_.

"I've never claimed to be your Lord." Harry stated blandly, not to refute the claim –though he still had next to no idea what the title entailed, though he strongly suspected it was simply for _being_– but as part of the dance, to see what the Greater would do. His magic curled around him lazily, just barely unseen, poised and waiting.

"Well, I suppose that's unfortunate for you then, little runt. _They_ believe, and you have to prove it now." A brief spike of chakra was the only warning Harry got, but it was more than sufficient; by the time the Greater's purple-slashed snout impacted the ground, Harry was a dozen feet away, moved with an instantaneous _snap-snap_ of air, Apparation near instinctual with his new freedom from the ninja.

Harry smiled sharply as the other snake reared back and shook his head with an angry curse, green eyes already searching for him. It was to be to the death, then. Harry's smile widened enough for one of his longer fangs to slit his lip cleanly, even as his magic whisked him a farther dozen feet as a new explosion of displaced dirt flew from the Greater's strike.

The other didn't immediately rear again after the second failed strike, glaring at Harry balefully with his head flat to the ground…and Harry felt his chakra moving, building, doing _something_, but—

He Apparated before he even knew why, but had no time to look back because when he reappeared the Greater lunged with impossible –_chakra enhanced!_– speed, mouth red and gaping, long fangs shining with chakra-laced venom and intent to swallow him whole. The trailing shadows of his cloak brushed the tip of the serpent's snout and Harry disappeared just in time, the _snap_ of his teleportation drowned out by the sound of the Greater's strong jaws slamming shut, empty.

Smile sharp and exhilaration high, Harry slapped a near-skeletal hand down on the thick scales, crouched upon the back of his opponent—nothing more than a taunt before Apparating once more, to the boughs of the immense trees high above. The adrenaline made him high; he felt so _alive_!

Harry leaned forward on the large branch, fingers curling around the edge to steady his crouch as he peered at the ground so far below, finally able to glimpse the attack he hadn't seen but _felt_ coming. A spiral of sharpened spikes of earth jutted starkly from the torn forest floor; any one of the spears would have been potentially fatal, each of the score barbed with yet _more_ wicked hooks of earth. _Impressive_. It was a shame that this fight could only end one way: Greater's superior intelligence and ability to use chakra _(like the shinobi!)_ would've been quite the boon. But there was no middle ground here. The fight would end in death—and Harry would hold his respect with the death of the one who called him weak. The fact that the Greater had belittled his companion first would only make Harry enjoy it more.

Far below, the dark Greater was becoming visibly frustrated, head whipping back and forth, forked tongue tasting the air nonstop. Harry inched farther along the branch, until he was perfectly visible if only the other looked _up_, but it gave Harry the perfect position _right above_—

Harry jumped, completely without fear as he twisted and fell headfirst towards the Greater, mouth split with a wild grin as he went fasterfaster_faster_ and let out an improbably loud hiss. He only smiled wider when the snake coiled and launched itself up at him, mouth gaping _(weakness!)_, and Harry stretched one hand towards it, directing, focusing, and when he felt damp breath on his arm he released his spell, and Apparated.

Harry tumbled hard into the soft, torn earth beside the stiff, toppling body of the Greater. He groaned quietly as he pushed himself to his hands and knees; his magic hadn't managed to negate all the speed of his fall, and Harry knew he was damned lucky that the ground was upturned and soft or he would have likely broken something. Harry was in no hurry to pick himself up, however, because he could feel that he had won. Magic spread out in ecstasy –no longer forced to hide from fear of discovery–, Harry could feel the thrum of the spell holding the other snake harmlessly petrified.

Suppressing a new limp with only some success, Harry leisurely walked the few feet to the Greater's head, one hand trailing over scales much smoother than his own. He didn't know if he had been expecting more of a challenge, but Harry found himself inexplicably disappointed that it hadn't lasted longer, that it had been so _easy_. Would it have drawn out longer if he had defended himself from the attacks, rather than dodging everything, apparating?

Would he have risked harm to himself if it had drawn the skirmish out, allowed it to escalate? Yes. Yes, he would have. Harry was genuinely disquieted to discover that he _would_ have dragged the fight out…if it hadn't been so vital to his pride and position to end this quickly. To _prove_ that he was _that_ much stronger than the Greater. But in any other hypothetical situation… _(Against shinobi..?)_

"I have defeated you soundly." Harry murmured, head tilted to one side as he stood just far enough away from the other's snout to clearly see both acid-green eyes. Though the serpent was petrified, he was aware –unlike the petrification from a Basilisk's indirect gaze– and Harry saw the way the weak light from above flickered as its focus shifted. The cool smile on his lips turned abruptly more sharp when he sensed the Greater's chakra begin to build—

_(Not even in his most intense duels with Dumbledore had Voldemort needed to apparate as much or as quickly as Harry had in these scant few minutes.)_

Harry didn't flinch as a rain of dirt pelted against his back, crouched with cool scales under his hands and feet. He didn't have to look back to know that there were yet more wicked spikes of earth protruding from where he stood not a second ago; Harry could tasted blood in the air from where the wicked hooks had gouged the Greater from his too-close proximity to his own attack. Slowly, when no more chakra built, Harry slouched back out of his cautious crouch to sit on the Greater's blunt snout, thin fingers tapping his lips thoughtfully.

It really was a shame… But at least he had learned something valuable: Mundane petrification didn't effect the use of chakra, _at all_.

"Are you going to do that again?" Harry asked musingly, making a point of looking over his shoulder at the massive, looming spikes. It was clear as day that to do so again would be suicide for the great snake; there was little chance the Greater could do that again without impaling his brain on one of them, and no chance that one wouldn't at least pierce his jaw. Harry leaned forward, his head inches away from one acid-green eye, voice dropping to a low whisper meant only for the Greater. "I am not a Lord without mercy. Do you want my mercy, Greater Snake? Do you wan to experience firsthand the power that you claimed I am without?"

Of course, no answer was forthcoming; the Greater _was_ petrified. Harry saw his fangs reflected in the eye, a demented smile that he made no attempt to hide, and reached up with both hands to carefully curl his fingers under the only thing keeping so many from instant death.

"Know that _this_ is my mercy," Harry murmured, eyes closed as he carefully dragged the blindfold away, a sinister smile still twisting his lips. "I could have decided to torture you first."

Yellow eyes met green, and the body of the Greater Snake slumped loose in sudden death: The anticlimactic end to a brief but exhilarating battle for respect.

Harry remained seated on the corpse for a long moment, pensive as he drew the blindfold back over his face; he had _felt_ the moment that death claimed the other, the immediate warp and drain of the pressing, unique chakra. He frowned at the dark scales and empty eyes, perturbed, but largely unbothered otherwise.

"My Lord?" Harry blinked and looked up at his companion's voice, and blinked again at finding all the other snakes gathered around the Greater's corpse. Quite suddenly he recalled that it had only been the Greater that had ever challenged his 'identity' as the serpents' Lord—the rest of them had never expressed any doubt. Harry smiled at them, wide and near _(too close)_ to manic, and pushed himself to stand even as Pretty joined him, coiling quickly up leg-arm-shoulder to neck.

It was _easy_ to pulse out yet more magic, easy to exude the kind of power and charisma that attracted the Dark Lord's first –most loyal– followers as he faced the blanket of silently waiting snakes. Easier still to twist the magic with the genuine, if strange, affection he held for them. "This 'Greater Snake' challenged me with the intent to kill, and in doing so forfeited his life to me. But _you_…none of you doubted my power, did you?" As he spoke, Harry climbed atop the corpse's horned head, idle hands twisting strands of loose magic into something with purpose. "Allow me to share my bounty with you, as thanks for your _loyalty_."

The sound of skin splitting punctuated his last word, and the smell of fresh blood permeated the air as a long cut started down the Greater's hide, following the path of Harry's pointed finger straight down the spine.

"Let us feast."

/-/-/-/-/

Belly heavy with the most revitalizing meal he'd enjoyed since Hogwarts, Harry smiled serenely and leant heavily against the Behemoth's massive side. Pretty remained coiled loosely around his neck –equally if not _more_ content than Harry–, and the other snakes who had partaken in the fulfilling meal lounged about the Greater's carved, stripped carcass.

There was much to do, even more to be concerned about, but none of it seemed to matter so much just then: Not when Harry was pleasantly lethargic and surrounded by beings who would give him their _souls_ if only he wanted for them.

Humanity was _highly_ overrated.

/-/-/-/-/

**A/N:** So, there's your real chapter. Tell me what you think? (Do I need to prepare to be flamed? *blank stare*) Mahh, whichever. Before anyone freaks, _no_, Harry's not gonna just cut and run; time skip and return to Konoha next chapter ;3


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